Save Me
by Sevlow
Summary: Roy Mustang is sent to Lior and captured.  After five long weeks of torture, will he ever recover?  Roycentric angst and violence.
1. Hydrogen

**((A/N: As is per usual in my fics, this story is NOT for the faint of heart. Look forward to angst, violence and madness, . This fic is mostly done and I will try to edit/write and post around one chapter a week.**

**Enjoy.))**

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First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye pressed herself back against the cool marble wall behind her, her gun held low and ready. She leaned slowly around the corner and peered down the hallway.

"Clear." She said to the men behind her, stepping forward to move quickly down the corridor, all of her muscles tensed into quivering knots of adrenaline. The men followed her obediently, their hurried footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Major Hughes appeared at the end of the passage and he and his men swarmed in from an adjacent corridor.

"All clear this way, Lieutenant." He called to her as she approached. "We have some locked doors, but I wanted to wait for your backup before breaking them down."

"Understood, sir. Lead the way."

He nodded to her and signaled to his men, leading them all back the way they had come. Hawkeye watched the Major as she ran beside him, taking in how tired he looked. To be honest, the Lieutenant herself was fighting exhaustion. They had been searching the destroyed city of Lior for days and had not made any real headway in their mission. They were looking for survivors, and the number that had been found among the bodies so far was depressingly low. Soon, they would have to admit defeat... but until that happened Hawkeye was going to push herself hard, ignoring the ache in her muscles and the fear in her breast.

Colonel Roy Mustang had been ordered to lead sixty armed soldiers into Lior nearly two months ago. General Hakuro's troops had moved on to pursue the majority of the city's population, which had fled north as they realized that they had become too few to stand against Hakuro's army. Mustang's troops were sent in to finish off the groups of rebels that remained in the city, but they had been quickly trumped by the very guerillas that they'd been sent to quell. Sixty trained soldiers—even under the very qualified command of the Colonel—were no match for the one hundred and eighty some-odd guerillas that waited for them within the fallen walls of Lior. Apparently, the military intelligence had been mistaken in the number rebels still left in the city. Terribly mistaken.

On multiple occasions during the beginning of the insurgence, the Colonel had angrily pleaded with the Brass for reinforcements, but his requests were routinely denied. Perhaps it was a political statement to disallow any more troops to be sent into Lior—for the military suppression there was already greatly disapproved of by the general populous—or maybe it was corruption among the higher-ups who simply didn't like Mustang, or maybe it was just human error, or any of the other gossiped theories that spread through the grapevine like wildfire. Regardless, the situation in Lior was bad and now it was too late to do anything about it.

Only six injured soldiers managed to escape from the melee, claiming that the Colonel—grimly recognizing defeat—had traded his own freedom for theirs. Only then—when most of the men sent into Lior were either dead or M.I.A—did Fuhrer King Bradley get off his hands and allow more troops to be sent in on a rescue mission and general clean-up.

Both Hawkeye and Hughes had volunteered to head the first wave of the mission without hesitation, each clinging to the desperate, foolish hope that their Colonel was still alive. They each knew that it was a long-shot. The traded soldiers said that they had each been tortured for information. The fact that they were ignorant of any classified military information pertaining to the fate of Lior was probably what helped Mustang negotiate their freedom. One Colonel is a far more valuable source of information than six lowly soldiers any day, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Mustang would not give the information freely. Hawkeye knew that he'd been trained to cope with torture, but there is only so much that a man can take, and he can only take it for so long.

It had been five weeks since the Colonel's capture and—other than the words of the escaped soldiers—there had been no communication with him or any of the other troops in that long.

Hughes stopped in front of a huge set of double doors and holstered his gun, testing the door with his shoulder. He turned to one of his men—a tall, burly man—and motioned for him to come over.

"Help me out here, Simmons. We're going to have to break it down. Lieutenant, I want you, Johnston, and Geller to cover us. If there are any surprises behind this door, I want you to take them out."

"Sir!" They replied in ordered unison as they leveled their guns at the door.

Hughes and Simmons braced themselves and, on the Major's count, they rammed the door. The wood cracked loudly, splintering at the frame and sagging inward off the hinges. Hughes backed up and kicked the broken door the rest of the way in. As it fell open Hawkeye and the other two men flowed quickly into the room, their guns drawn as they scanned the dim chamber for any dangers.

The room was still and silent, no sign of life stirring in the gloomy interior. It was a large, high-ceilinged room that might have once been a meeting hall or an auditorium before the uprising, but now it was a musty, barren chamber that reeked vaguely of death. There was a small stockpile of weapons in the corner, along with cans of food and a few half-empty bottles of liquor. This room had probably been a headquarters for the guerillas, a meeting place where they planned out their rebellion, discussed how to thwart the military that was trying to suppress them, and—from what Hawkeye assumed from the blood spattered on the walls—where they collected their information.

"There's no one here. They must have fled." Hawkeye called to the Major, lowering her gun.

Hughes entered the room and stood next to her, sighing his disappointment. Still no sign of the Colonel—or anyone else today, for that matter—but that meant that he could still be alive somewhere. Until they found his lifeless body, they would try to stay optimistic.

"Alright." Hughes barked to his men, "Collect those firearms in the corner. Geller and Shaw, get them back to the trucks. At the very least, we can make sure that the rebels wont be able to use them if they come back."

The men hastened to their tasks without complaint, although their fatigue was apparent. Hawkeye exhaled and massaged her temple, fighting off a headache that was blossoming behind her left eye. They were all tired, but none of them would even think of stopping. Out of the fifty-three men who had been missing—excluding the Colonel—only thirty-two of them had been found and only eight of those thirty-two had still been alive. They could not give up when so many of their comrades were still unaccounted for, no matter how exhausted, disheartened, and frustrated they had become.

"We'll find him, Riza." Hughes said softly, sensing her concealed distress. "We still have several more buildings to go through after this one. He's bound to be in one of them."

Hughes did not, Hawkeye noticed, say whether or not he thought that the Colonel would be alive when they found him.

Hawkeye nodded and watched the men gather the weapons from the disorderly pile, unloading the guns and strapping them together so that they could be easily carried. One of the men paused in his work to wipe his brow and his eyes wandered over to the other side of the room.

"Sir!" He said, a sudden urgency filling his voice. "Someone's here!"

Hughes instinctively flicked out the knife that he packed up his sleeve and Hawkeye raised her gun, ready for anything. The soldier who had spoken, however, made no such defensive move. Instead he stumbled over the pile of weapons to the opposite corner of the room, which was partially hidden by an overturned table. Hughes went after him and Hawkeye followed close behind.

There was a body on the floor.

The motionless figure was half curled on his side like a beaten dog, the curve of his spine prominent beneath the thin, tattered skin of his pale back. He was shirtless—exposing multiple lacerations and contusions marring his thin torso—and his pants were so torn and bloodstained that it took Hawkeye a moment to identify them as part of a military uniform. His entire body was caked and smeared with dark, sticky clots of half-dried blood and he smelled like a slaughterhouse. He was bound and gagged, his frail, bruised arms pulled behind him and tied firmly at the wrist. His hands themselves were wrapped thickly in dark swathes of cloth, completely immobilizing his fingers. The rebels must have learned early on that this particular prisoner—like all alchemists—was especially dangerous with his hands.

Major Hughes went down on his knees beside Colonel Mustang's broken form and rolled him over onto his back. Mustang's eyes were dull and half-lidded, staring blindly at nothing. His lips were dry and cracked, bleeding sluggishly onto the already blood-soaked gag that was cutting into the corners of his mouth. His face was covered in deep gashes, bits of broken glass imbedded in his ruined flesh. His nose had been broken at some point and was healing crookedly and that—coupled with his dead, darkly circled eyes and the fact that he'd lost a massive amount of weight since they had seen him last—made him scarcely recognizable, but both Hawkeye and Hughes had known him almost immediately.

"He's alive." Hughes breathed, checking the limp man's pulse. Quickly, he pulled out his knife and cut through the gag, pulling it out of the Colonel's mouth and throwing it aside as he cupped the man's face in his hand. "Colonel Mustang? Sir, can you hear me?"

The Colonel gave no response, did not even raise his glazed, lifeless eyes to look at the man who was talking to him. He was as silent and motionless as any dead man, aside from the shallow, rattling gasps coming from him that could only loosely be described as respiration.

"Come on, Roy." Hughes pleaded, striking Mustang's cheek firmly with his open palm in an attempt to snap him out of his daze. "Talk to me, buddy."

It was not Hughes' words, but more likely being struck that pulled a response from the catatonic man. Mustang flinched away from him and curled himself instinctively into a ball as soft, broken words lurched slowly from his damaged mouth.

"_H-hydrogen... nonmetal; atomic mass of one point zero zero seven nine four. Helium... noble gas; atomic... atomic m-mass of four point zero zero two six zero two. Lithium... alkali metal; atomic mass..._"

One of the first things you learn when being instructed on how to cope with being interrogated by the enemy is that—no matter what—they can find ways of making you talk. Always. If you are being tortured you are eventually going to say _something_, even if you are the strongest, most tight-lipped person in the world. Military personnel with classified information have always known this, and have devised ways of thwarting their torturers if they were ever captured and "swayed" into speaking. Many soldiers memorize songs or poems, planning to recite them _ad nauseam_ while in the cruel hands of their captors, to keep their mouths busy and their minds detached from whatever terrible things were being done to their bodies. Mustang, apparently, had chosen to recite the elements of the periodic table in an attempt to keep his military secrets.

"Roy, it's me. It's Maes." Hughes said to him desperately, running his thumb gently across the man's brow.

"_Beryllium... alkaline earth metal; atomic mass of n-nine point zero one two one eight two..._"

Hughes sat back slightly, looking down at his superior and best friend as he tried to conceal the sick horror on his face. Lieutenant Hawkeye was familiar with the expression "the light's are on, but nobody's home," but she had never before witnessed it in actuality. The Colonel was alive... but every soldier crowded around him could see that he wasn't really there anymore and had probably been absent for a long time, now. His dull eyes were not just blank, they were _empty_ as if he had forgotten everything except for what it means to be in pain.

The Major made his face carefully expressionless and flicked his knife out again, slicing through the bonds that held Mustang's arms behind his back. He removed the ropes silently then unbound Mustang's hands from their cloth prisons. Several of Mustang's fingers looked as if they'd been broken and each of his nails had either been pulled back or ripped out entirely, leaving his fingertips raw and torn. The Major slipped one arm around the Colonel's shoulders and slid the other under his legs, lifting him from the ground carefully.

As the Major lifted him though, a dark, terrifying scream tore itself from the Colonel's throat. It had been impossible to tell from the way he had been curled on the floor, but now they could all see the sickening angle at which his right leg was hanging. It was clearly broken badly and the pressure that Hughes was putting on it was more than even the barely-conscious Colonel could ignore.

"_N-NITROGEN!"_ He shrieked, writhing in Hughes' arm as the Major frantically tried to adjust his grip so that he wasn't hurting him. "_NONMETAL; ATOMIC MASS OF F-FOURTEEN POINT ZER... ah—"_

The Colonel stiffened for a moment then fell limp in the Major's arms, his haunted eyes falling shut as he lost his frail grip on consciousness. His face went ashen and slack, his head lolling back like some kind of frightening doll that had been carelessly tossed aside by its sadistic owner.

There was a shocked, disturbed silence following in the wake of the Colonel's agonized cries. Slowly the Major straightened and carried his damaged burden over to the big man who had helped him break down the door.

"Take him to the medic, Simmons." He said quietly, his voice scarcely loud enough to be called a whisper. "Shaw. Geller. Finish picking up the weapons and go with him to the trucks."

No one moved. Everyone in the room was looking uncomfortably between the half-dead Colonel and the clearly distressed Major.

"MOVE IT!" The he barked at them angrily, making the men jump as they turned to obey. "Lieutenant, you and your men are with me. We still have people to find, so let's move out!"

"Yes, sir!" Hawkeye replied as she and the men saluted him. He was right. They had work to do and, as much as she just wanted to help take the Colonel to the medical van to see if he was okay, there were still soldiers out there depending on them. The Colonel would have to wait.

She and Hughes exchanged a significant glance and, with a tilt of her head, she signaled for the troops to follow her, exiting the room and trying to display a feeling of confidence in her determined stride. She could not let the men see how shaken she was, or how close to tears Mustang's tortured body had made her. She banished the harrowing image from her mind and pressed forward. Forever forward.

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"Major."

Maes Hughes jerked his head up in response to Lieutenant Hawkeye's soft voice. He'd been half-dozing in a hard, uncomfortable chair in Central Hospital's waiting room.

"Any news?" She asked, handing him a paper cup full of bad hospital coffee.

He shook his head, accepting the cup gratefully. "No, nothing."

She sighed and sat down next to him, sipping at her own coffee. Hawkeye had been reporting to the Fuhrer on their findings in Lior. There were still two more groups of soldiers remaining in the city, looking for the handful of men that they had yet to find. Brigadier General Shanks from Western headquarters was in command, arresting any rebels they came across and sending home the wounded and dead as they were found. Hawkeye and Hughes had come back to Central with most of the wounded, their part of the mission complete.

Maes had stayed in the medical van with Roy all the way back to Central, never taking his eyes from his friend's battered form. Though Roy had regained consciousness on the long drive back from Lior, he was still unresponsive. He started ranting about the atomic elements again as the medics worked to stabilize him, but other than that the man was silent and closed off to Maes' encouraging words. The medics had done their best, but there is only so much that a field doctor can do for a patient out of the back of a van.

Needless to say, Roy had not been doing well when they'd finally arrived at the hospital.

He'd been in surgery for hours now and no one had come out to update them on how he was doing. Of the twelve wounded soldiers that they had brought back, one had died on the road and another was not expected to make it through the night. The Major had been filled in on the conditions of all the other soldiers, but there had been no word from Roy's doctors and that worried Maes deeply.

Still, Maes knew that he'd be the first to be informed if anything did happen. Roy had no real family and had long ago signed Maes on as his medical proxy—the person who makes medical decisions for him if he is somehow unable to make them for himself. Maes was ready and willing to do his duty to Roy... _if only the fucking doctors would let him know what was going on!_

Hughes raised his head to look at an approaching figure that he'd caught out of the corner of his eye.

"Major Hughes?" The figure asked, returning Maes' gaze over the top his clipboard.

"Yes," Maes said quickly, jumping to his feet and sloshing hot coffee all over the back of his hand. Hawkeye stood next to him, her hand resting very gently on his arm as if to calm his suddenly rapid heartbeat.

"I'm Dr. Jacobs." The wizened man said, shaking Maes' hand with a professional sort of warmth before turning to shake Hawkeye's hand as well. "Colonel Mustang is out of surgery now. We've just wheeled him into Recovery."

"How is he?"

The doctor paused for a beat, sending a sharp dagger of fear plunging into Maes' heart. If a doctor hesitates to tell you something, it is almost always something bad.

"Well, I'm not going to lie to you." Dr. Jacobs said with a sigh, "He is doing much better than when you brought him in... but that's still not very good. We nearly lost him twice during the surgery; he went into cardiac arrest and crashed for a while, but we got him back. He's stabilized now, but we'll be watching him closely for the next few days."

"But... but he's okay now, though. Right?" Maes asked, reaching over to squeeze Hawkeye's hand subconsciously.

"Well, yes and no. He's stable, but he's not out of the woods yet. There was a lot of damage done to him. He's malnourished, dehydrated, and anemic. Once we get some more fluids into him I think he'll improve quite a bit, but until then I'm going to remain a little guarded."

Maes nodded, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair. Well, it could be worse. At least he was alive and stabilized.

"How bad are his injuries?" Hawkeye asked, her voice—as always—almost completely unreadable.

"Pretty bad. His leg is the worst of it, though. It's broken in three places and we had to put in some pins to hold it together. There was bone protruding from the wound just below the knee and the area was festering badly. We think we got a handle on the infection, but we still might have to resort to amputation depending on how he heals."

Maes felt Hawkeye stiffen beside him and leaned a little closer to her, hoping to give her at least a little comfort.

"His pelvis is fractured." The doctor continued, flipping through the pages on the clipboard as he started to list off the Colonel's injuries. "And his jaw. He has three broken ribs, a cracked skull, and six broken fingers. His left shoulder was dislocated, but we aren't too worried about that. Luckily, he has no major organ damage... although his heart is still laboring a little, so we'll be keeping an eye on it. He has some nasty burns on his back and some lacerations, but most of them are comparatively minor. There was also some bad anal tearing... apparently from sexual assault."

"Oh my god..." Hughes moaned, half-turning away from the doctor in sick horror. It was hard to stand here and listen to everything that Roy's poor body had been subjected to, but to hear that he'd even been _raped_ made Maes stomach turn with anguish and rage on behalf of his friend.

"We did a rape-kit and sent it in to the lab, just to be sure that he didn't contract any sexually transmitted diseases." Dr. Jacobs said quietly after pausing briefly to allow Maes to collect himself. "He's covered in bruises and other superficial wounds, but I'm sure you knew that. There are some other, older injuries, too, but those are already mostly healed."

Jacobs stopped again and fixed Maes with a very serious stare, the older man's watery blue eyes piercing in their intensity. "To put it frankly, his recovery is going to be long and hard... and I'm not just talking about the physical part. The medics who brought him in said that he was catatonic. This is not uncommon among torture victims, but you need to understand that his psychological injuries are just as serious as his physical ones. He might snap out of it tomorrow, or he might never snap out of it. As his medical proxy, he needs you to help him through this. Can you do it?"

"Yes. Yes, anything." Maes said sincerely, his throat tight.

"Good. Then we will do everything we can for him as long as you promise to do the same."

"...Can we see him?"

"Yes, but only one of you can go into the Recovery room at a time. We'll probably get him his own room later tonight, but for now we want him under close observation."

Maes looked down at Hawkeye inquiringly. She smiled at him faintly and tilted her head to the side as she looked up at him. "You go ahead, sir."

He thanked her and Jacobs led him down the white, sterile hallway of the hospital to a dimly lit room that smelled like antiseptic and metal. Of the six beds in the room, four of them were occupied. A bed on Maes' left held one of the injured soldiers that the Major recognized from the medic van, but could not remember the name of. He was sleeping fitfully, mumbling like a child caught in a nightmare. The doctor led Maes away from him, to another bed on the far side of the room.

"I'll give you a few moments alone with him," the doctor said quietly, patting Maes on the shoulder and turning to leave the room. Maes scarcely noticed his departure, too entranced with the motionless body spread before him.

Roy looked dead. The dull, greenish lights above his bed drained away what little color remained in his face and gave him the cold appearance of a corpse. His sliced cheeks were taped with gauze, but bright spots of blood still seeped through the white fabric. His eyes were closed and darkly bruised above the clear oxygen mask that covered his mouth and nose. Roy's arms were at his sides, placed gently on top of the off-white hospital sheets that had been pulled up to his chest. His hands were heavily splinted and bandaged to the point that they scarcely looked like hands anymore, highlighting the presence of the IV line that ran from his wrist up to the clear glass bottle on the rack beside the bed.

His respiration was slow and steady, offsetting the soulless _beep... beep... beep..._ of the machines he was hooked up to. He looked small and frail, a disturbing caricature of the strong, powerful man that he had once been.

Slowly, Maes lowered himself into the chair beside the bed and reached forward to rest his hand against the side of Roy's head. The Major wound his fingers through his best friend's black hair for a moment, then lowered his face into his other hand and valiantly fought back the urge to burst into tears.


	2. Broken Toy

Edward Elric stormed down the wide hallway of Central Headquarters with a newspaper crumpled in his clenched fist, staring daggers at any military personnel who happened to be in his way. He reached a set of double doors and pushed them open, his eyes scanning heatedly around the room as the startled occupants raised their heads from their work.

"Where is he?!" Ed demanded angrily when he saw that the Colonel's desk was empty. Hawkeye looked at him blankly and did not reply.

"Hello to you, too, Ed." said a voice from behind him. "I thought that I saw a red-coated tornado blow by."

Ed turned and looked up to see Major Hughes smirking down at him. He looked tired, Ed thought to himself, but then he shook his head and allowed his anger to drive him once more.

"Did you know about this?" Ed inquired loudly, brandishing the newspaper and shoving it in the Major's face. Hughes sighed tolerantly and took the paper from him, scanning the front page. He went still for a moment, then his shoulders sagged and he handed the paper back to Ed.

"Yeah. Of course I knew. I was there."

"But I thought that Al and I made Lior better!" Ed protested, looking back down at the article, which detailed the very recent battle fought in the city that Ed thought that he'd brought peace to. Apparently, soldiers had been brought into the city over two months ago in response to widespread riots and violent rebellion, but those soldiers had been quickly overwhelmed. There had then been a rescue mission to collect the devastated troops only two weeks ago, at which point more troops were brought in. "How the hell could the Colonel not tell me that I failed in Lior? I swear, when I see him I'm going put my fist in his face!"

Ed would have continued his wrathful tirade, but a sudden look of shock came over the Major's face and he fell silent. There was a long, breathless pause from Hughes and then the man covered his mouth with his hand, still looking down at Ed.

"My god, you don't know." He breathed, raising his gaze to look at Hawkeye on the other side of the room. "I thought you called him..."

"I thought you did." Hawkeye said back, her face just as unsettled as Hughes'.

"...Call me about what?" Ed asked tentatively, only now aware that something was wrong.

Hughes looked down at him sadly, looking as if the weight of the world was crushing down upon his broad shoulders. He moved his hand from his mouth and used it to grip Ed's arm bracingly.

"The Colonel led the mission in Lior."

Ed's mouth went dry. He hadn't read the entire article, but he had read enough to know how horrifically the troops had been decimated. Only nineteen of the sixty men had made it out alive, and a few more of those had died on the road or soon after their arrival in the hospital.

"...So, he's dead?" Ed managed to ask, his voice a tight rasp.

"No, he survived..." Hughes replied quickly, "He's been in the hospital since we brought him back to Central."

"Is he okay?"

The Major sighed and massaged his temple with one hand, still looking down at Ed with a gloomy sort of thoughtfulness.

"Maybe you should come with me to the hospital. I was about to go there anyway." Hughes said finally, his voice soft.

Ed's heart shuddered as the Major spoke those words, a dark sort of anxiety filling him and leaving him without a doubt that something terrible had happened. Ed could tell that Hughes was distraught, though the man was keeping himself collected admirably. The young alchemist was used to seeing the Major as a happy jokester or—less often—as an intense military man... but Ed had never seen him _sad_, and there was something deeply disturbing about seeing such sadness now.

"Come on." The tall man said as he turned and headed back down the hallway, gently steering Ed to walk beside him. Ed complied and let the Major lead him outside and into a car. Without another word, he got into the seat next to Hughes as the man started the engine. Ed watched him searchingly as they pulled away from Central Headquarters, wondering what horrible injuries the Colonel must had sustained to have so damaged his comrade.

The drive wasn't all that long, but it seemed to take a long time because of the questions and uneasiness that weighed with sharp silence upon Ed's chest. They pulled into the hospital parking lot and exited the car, walking side-by-side toward the big white building.

They walked through the huge, intimidating front doors of the hospital and Ed was immediately hit with the unnerving smell of chemical sterility and antiseptics. His stomach turned at the biting aroma as he was reminded forcefully of his own long stints under critical medical care when he'd lost his arm and leg. He swallowed back his nausea and straightened, looking up at Hughes as the man stepped over to the front desk.

"Good morning, Major Hughes!" the pleasantly chubby middle-aged nurse at the desk said brightly, pulling a clipboard from a drawer to her left and handing it to him. "I see you brought a friend."

"Hey, Carol." He smiled back familiarly, taking the clipboard from her and signing both his and Ed's names on the visitor list. He had clearly been here many times before and was very familiar with visiting procedure. "Yes, Edward here is tagging along with me today, if that's alright."

"Of course, of course! That's fine." Carol said, taking back the clipboard. "But before you leave today, I have some more paperwork for you to fill out. Just some legal stuff."

Hughes made a face at her and she laughed, giving him a friendly wave as he led Ed down the white-tiled corridor. Their steps echoed starkly in the near-empty hallway, the hollow sound accentuating the unevenness of Ed's half-prosthetic gait. The Major stopped in front of an open door and turned to Ed. For a moment it looked as if Hughes was going to say something, perhaps to give Ed a furtive heads-up as to how bad the Colonel's condition was so that he was prepared for what he was about to see... but then Hughes shook his head and just motioned for Ed to follow him inside.

For a moment, Ed did not follow him. He stood in the hallway outside the door with his heart uncomfortably tight in his chest as he braced himself uncertainly, looking in through the open door. He could only see the foot of the bed, for the rest of it was obscured by a thick privacy-curtain, blocking Ed's view of the bed's occupant. Hughes placed himself at the foot of the bed and smiled down at the patient.

"Hey, Roy." He said softly, clearly trying to keep his tone buoyant as if he were speaking to a child. "How are we doing today, huh?"

Ed heard no reply from the Colonel, but Hughes didn't look like he'd expected one.

"I brought Edward to see you." He continued, prompting Ed to gather the courage to step into the room. He moved slowly to stand next to Hughes and felt a brief wave of confused relief as he looked down at the Colonel.

The man didn't look nearly as bad off as Ed had imagined... there were no missing limbs, no disfiguring injuries on his face or chest, no tubes shoved down his throat or anything else that might have signaled the severity of the Colonel's condition. What wounds that Ed did see—huge bruises, stitched gashes, and varied burns that marred the Colonel's cheeks and arms—looked like they were healing, and though the man's hands were bandaged heavily and his leg was in a cast, Ed saw little else that was particularly worrisome.

It wasn't until he was able to look past the man's bodily wounds that he realized the true nature of Mustang's injury. The Colonel was thin, now; despairingly, shockingly thin. Mustang's build had always been lean, but powerfully so with broad shoulders and elegantly-muscled limbs. Now, though, he looked almost skeletal. He must have lost at least thirty pounds since that last time Ed had seen him, all of it weight that his toned body really couldn't afford to lose. Mustang's boyish face had become gaunt and angular, his cheeks hollowed and his blackened eyes sunken...

...But his eyes themselves—which Ed only just realized were open—were by far the worst part of the harrowing sight before him. Mustang was staring blankly straight ahead, though his face had been turned so that his dead, soulless eyes were looking out the window next to the bed rather than up at the ceiling. There was _nothing_ behind those eyes. They were glazed and lifeless, reminding Ed of the dull, frightening emptiness that had come over his own mother's eyes moments before her poor heart stopped beating.

It was then that the horrifying extent of Mustang's damage flowed over Ed like a shower of ice and the boy realized that the Colonel really _was_ dead, in spite of the fact that his body kept on living. He was as vacant and hollow as an angry child's broken toy.

A soft moan of horror and sadness escaped from Ed before he could stop himself. Hughes sighed next to him and put his hand on the boy's shoulder again, squeezing firmly.

"What... what happened to him?"

"As far as we can tell," Hughes began quietly, still looking down at his fallen comrade, "he was captured in Lior and tortured for information. He was in bad shape when we brought him in and though his body is starting to recover quickly, his mind... well, five straight weeks of interrogation takes its toll."

"Is he going to... to ever wake up?" Ed asked when he found his voice.

"He is awake, Ed."

"No, I mean... is he going to stay like this... is he going to be... a _vegetable_ like this forever?"

Hughes winced a little at the word "vegetable", but then shrugged. "We don't know. He's been like this since we found him... and some soldiers who were with him said he was like this a few days before we even got to him." Hughes moved over to the side of the bed, standing between the patient and the window, closing the blinds a little so that the sunlight streaming in was no longer shining in the Colonel's unfocused eyes.

"Can he hear us?" Ed asked timidly after a long pause, moving a little closer.

"You know, I'm not really sure. I come in every day to talk to him, but he doesn't ever react to my words." Hughes smiled sadly again and reached down to brush Mustang's untidy bangs out of his motionless face. "You need a haircut, buddy." He continued fondly, running the backs of his fingers down the Colonel's scabbed cheek.

Suddenly, Mustang's body twitched and he unsuccessfully tried to curl himself into a protective ball.

"_Hydrogen: nonmetal; atomic mass of one point zero zero seven nine four. Helium: noble gas; atomic mass of four point zero zero two six zero two..._"

Ed jumped at the unexpected movement and words from the Colonel. He looked up at Hughes, alarmed but hopeful that this was a good sign, but Hughes did not look surprised or excited by the Colonel's soft ranting.

"He does this sometimes." Hughes explained dejectedly, quickly moving his hand away from Mustang. "Usually when he's in pain, but also if someone makes a loud noise outside or sometimes just when someone touches him. He never says anything else... he just lists elements over and over again."

Ed's shoulders sagged, his throat tightening as he returned his gaze to the Colonel, silently trying to come to terms with the fact that his commanding officer had not only been tortured horribly, but driven insane. Ed knew that Hughes was watching him, and that was perhaps the only thing that kept him from bursting into tears at the thought. Ed often declared how much he hated the Colonel, raging loudly about him to anyone who would listen, but Ed had always known that Mustang cared for both him and Al from the way he meddled in their affairs and did his best to protect them... and secretly, in that same harshly dysfunctional way, Ed had cared for him in return. And now, to see him like this... so broken and absent... it was a lot to absorb at once.

"..._Lithium: alkali metal; atomic mass..._"

"Well," Hughes began, talking over the Colonel's low, monotone voice, "I need to go take care of that paperwork before I forget. It'll only take a few minutes, if you want to stay here with him for a bit."

Ed nodded uncomfortably, not trusting himself to speak. Hughes made a small, sympathetic sound and patted Ed's shoulder companionably as he moved past him and headed for the door.

"I'll be just down the hall if you need me." He said to him, then turned and gave Mustang one last glance before departing.

Ed was alone now, apart from the alive-yet-lifeless body of Colonel Roy Mustang that filled the room with a soft, yet piercing string of words that he probably didn't even realize that he was uttering.

"Oh, Colonel..." Ed rasped, moving to stand at the head of the bed with the light from the window warming his back, "What did they do to you?"

"..._Carbon: nonmetal; atomic mass of twelve point zero one zero seven eight..._"

Ed crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with the catatonic man and looked at him closely, trying to quell the deep feeling of grief that was contorting his insides. Was this Ed's fault? He'd caused a lot of damage in Lior, but he'd thought that he'd made the city better overall... The prophet Cornello had been unseated and now the city knew the truth behind his lies, so wasn't that better? Apparently not. If Ed hadn't gone there in the first place, would this uprising have even happened? Had he triggered this in his own one-minded search for the philosopher's stone? If it weren't for Ed, Mustang would probably be sitting at his desk right now, whining his way through his workday instead of lying in a hospital bed as he methodically listed elements.

"..._Oxygen: nonmetal; atomic mass of fifteen point nine nine nine four three. Fluorine: halogen; atomic mass of eighteen point nine nine eight five zero three_..."

Ed sighed, the faintest smile touching his lips. "The atomic mass of Fluorine is eighteen point nine nine eight FOUR zero three." he corrected him softly, "Not five."

At Ed's words, Mustang's rant trailed off into silence.

"_Atomic mass of... eighteen point nine nine eight FOUR zero three_...?" The Colonel repeated after a long pause, a definite inflection at the end turning his uniform rambling into a question.

Ed's heart stopped for a moment, startled. Had the Colonel heard him? Moreover, was he actually responding? The Colonel had fallen silent again, his brow slightly furrowed as if he was waiting for Ed to answer him.

"Y-yeah... it's four, I'm sure of it." Ed said finally, looking up briefly at the door with the vain hope that Hughes was coming back.

Mustang blinked and his dark eyes seemed to focus on Ed, locking his gaze with his subordinate as a look of dazed bemusement crossed his face. But then, slowly, his eyes widened in horror and his pupils contracted into sharp pinpoints of black.

His lips parted and spoke one word that was so packed with distress and raw terror that the emotional force of it knocked the air from Ed's lungs:

"_Run._" he breathed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes sighed as he stalked back down the hallway, his hands in his pockets. He hated the legal paperwork that came with being his best friend's medical proxy, but it was entirely worth it... and luckily this round had only needed a few signatures. The documents mostly outlined Maes' ability to stick to what Roy had expressed in his will. Roy devoutly did not want to be on life-support and, while that last wish had not come into play yet, it might mean that some very difficult decisions were about to arise.

Roy technically _was_ and _was not_ on life support. His heart and lungs were working on their own, but he did need to be fed through a tube and some still considered that a form of life-support, even if only mildly. Soon, Maes would have to decide whether or not he thought _Roy Mustang _would have considered it life-support, and if so, he would have to let his friend starve to death if it meant fulfilling his wishes.

Well, he still had a few weeks to think on it... best not to let it rule his mind now.

"Major!"

Maes' head perked up and his heart stumbled unevenly as he heard Edward scream for him from Roy's room. He sprinted down the corridor, coming to a skidding halt in the doorway.

"Ed, what—" he started, but then froze.

"_They'll kill you, Edward... you h-have to run!_" Roy was saying desperately to the boy, trying to sit up. "_They're looking for you, but I didn't tell them anything... I swear that I didn't tell them..._"

"He just started freaking out on me!" Ed squeaked as he tried to push the Colonel back down onto the mattress. "Do something!"

Maes rushed forward and the Colonel finally noticed him. Roy sat up fully and turned to face him, placing himself between Maes and Ed as if trying to shield the boy.

"_I w-wont let them hurt you.._." Roy swore to Ed, pressing himself back against the boy as his glazed eyes stared up at Maes defiantly. Maes could clearly see that he was hallucinating and not entirely conscious.

"Roy, it's okay!" Maes tried to soothe, reaching his hand out slowly to his friend. Roy flinched away as if expecting to be struck, but resolutely kept trying to protect Ed from the dangers that lurked in his own ravaged mind. Maes moved forward and put his hand very gently on Roy's shoulder, hoping that the tender contact would help him to realize that he was safe. "You're in a hospital, in Central. It's okay, now."

For a moment it looked at if Maes' soft touch had succeeded in calming Roy, for his passionate rambling fell silent and one of the arms that he was using to keep Ed behind him lowered back down onto the bed. Ed looked up at Maes then returned his gaze to Roy, unsure of what to do.

"Maybe you should leave the room, Ed." Maes said softly, his gaze still locked with Roy's. Ed nodded, obviously shaken by what was happening, and moved slowly out from behind his Colonel. Roy turned to look at him, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he unfocusedly watched the boy go to stand near Maes.

"_No... d-don't touch him_." Roy pleaded, such pain in his voice that it shot through Maes like a shard of glass. "_He's just a kid... he didn't know..._"

Maes reached his hand back, furtively pushing Ed toward the door in hopes that he'd take the hint and leave, thinking that maybe without Ed in the room Roy would be able to get a grip on himself. Besides, Maes really didn't think that the once-proud Colonel would really want Ed to be seeing him like this in the first place. It would be better for everyone if the boy would just go.

Roy, however, did not like the brief contact that Maes made with Ed as he pushed him away. The delirious man made a harsh, beastial sound and threw himself at Maes, still trying to protect Ed from the evils that only he could see. Maes grabbed him and held him tightly against his chest, afraid that Roy would hurt himself in this fit of hysteria if he didn't immobilize him.

Roy was hyperventilating now, eyes wild as his stressed body and mind tried to cope with his terror and confusion. The heart-monitor next to the bed beeped a warning, telling Maes that Roy's heart was pounding dangerously fast. He needed to calm down, or his already-weak heart was going to give out completely.

"I wont hurt him, Roy... It's me! Maes!" The Major tried to convince him, his voice breaking. He seated himself on the edge of the bed and kept his tone carefully light as he held the Colonel. "You're safe here, you and Ed both are."

Roy screamed and thrashed weakly in Maes arms, already too exhausted to escape from his pinioning embrace.

"_Just run, Fullmetal! Please! I-I can't_..." Roy begged, staring over Maes' shoulder at the boy. Maes looked over at Ed, who was frozen with uneasy shock as he listened to his Colonel's ranting.

"Get _out_, Ed! Go get a nurse or something!" Maes shouted at him.

Edward jolted as if slapped, but snapped out of his alarmed daze and turned quickly to run out of the door, calling for help.

"Come on, Roy..." Maes said, turning back to the frightened, gasping man in his arms. "It's going to be okay, just calm down."

"_Please, please no..._" the Colonel said, the words coming from him like the panicked sounds of a beaten dog that fears another onslaught of violence from its master. "_Just stop, please..._ _don't touch me..._ _I told you, I don't know anything..._"

Maes' heart broke to hear those wrenched, shuddering words. He could just imagine what horrible things Roy was experiencing in his own head to make him rasp so imploringly. The Major pulled his broken best friend against him even more tightly, pressing his cheek to the side of Roy's head.

"Oh, Roy... I'm so sorry..." Maes rasped quietly, even as the man he was addressing writhed and screamed against him, not even aware of his friend's mournful words.

"_Don't touch me! DON'T TOUCH ME...!_"

Maes heard a noise at the door behind him and a pair of strong, feminine arms gripped Roy's shoulders, gently but firmly disengaging him from Maes' embrace and forcing him back onto the bed. The Major looked up as the nurse nudged him aside so that she could hold the hysterical man down firmly while another nurse quickly syringed a dose of clear fluid into his IV line.

"We'll take it from here." The woman with the syringe said to Maes, tilting her head covertly to signify that she wanted him to go out in the hallway. Maes stood, wiping his eyes on the cuff of his uniform as he watched the sedative work its way through Roy's system. Roy went still, a quavering moan escaping from him as his terrified eyes slid shut and his body relaxed against the mattress.

"Come on, Major." said a voice at his side. Maes looked down as Ed took him by the elbow and led him out of the room. The two of them stood in the doorway, trying to look past the privacy-curtain to see what was going on, but all they could make out were the vague silhouettes of the nurses as they worked.

Maes and Ed exchanged a disquieted glance and the Major ran a trembling hand through his dark hair, trying to still his erratic heartbeat and quell the painful tightness in his throat.

"What... what did you do to make him react like that?" Maes asked, still stunned by Roy's abrupt and violent outburst.

"Nothing!" Ed defended himself, clearly upset. "He just got the mass of Fluorine wrong, so... so I corrected him and he just... went nuts. I-I didn't mean to scare him, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, don't be sorry, Ed..." Maes said softly, a sick smile curling the corners of his mouth. "This is the most activity I've seen from him since we brought him back, so maybe this is a good sign. He even recognized you... That has to be an improvement, don't you think?"

Ed shrugged and looked away from Maes, probably too overwhelmed to take any comfort in that thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"_...I mean, that's a good sign, right?"_

Gracia Hughes bit her lip and sighed into the phone, pained by the desperate hope in her husband's voice. Maes was calling her up from the hospital's payphone and had just told her of Roy's brief lapse into some hysterical form of consciousness.

"I can't say for sure that it's a _good_ sign, but it's certainly a sign of some kind." She replied guardedly. "Did something trigger it, or did he just start ranting?"

"_I'm pretty sure Ed triggered it somehow. Sweetheart, Roy even_ recognized _him! He called him by name and everything!"_

"Did he recognize you?"

"..._No_."

Gracia winced inwardly at the quiet grief packed into that one word. There was silence for a moment, then Maes continued,

"_Anyway, the nurses said that I could stay the night with him. I want to be here if... you know... if it happens again_."

"That's fine, baby. Let me know if anything does happen. Just... just don't get your hopes up, Maes."

".._.Yeah. Yeah, I know_."

"I love you."

"_I love you, too. Kiss Elysia goodnight for me. See you tomorrow._"

_Click._

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	3. God Awful Cologne

**((A/N: some of this might be hard for some people to follow, but just remember that things that are italicized or in parentheses are thoughts/dreams/hallucinations/et cetera. I'm too stupid to explain it any better than that... :) most grammatical/structural errors are intentional.))**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_The Colonel swallowed his mouthful of blood. He never spit it out. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much he was bleeding. Sometimes it was a lot... sometimes it was only a little, just a cut on the inside of his lip or a slight tear in his gums. This time though, he was bleeding a lot. They'd knocked out one of his teeth with that fucking pipe again. He'd swallowed the tooth, too. He'd toyed with the idea of spitting it in the face of the man who had hit him... but instead he just closed his blackened eyes and silently waited for this round of questioning to be over. _

_They could not make him sink to their level._

"_This is getting old, Colonel." Jenkins said, tossing the bloodied pipe aside. The thing clattered on the ground sharply, momentarily amplifying the pain in the Colonel's head. Jenkins took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke in Roy's face. _

_Roy acted as if he hadn't heard the man speak, and focused on breathing as evenly as he could through his sluggishly bleeding nose. Jenkins sighed like a teacher with a particularly stubborn student and moved to stand a little closer to him. The Colonel knew what was coming next and it took a great deal of his willpower to keep from flinching in anticipation._

"_All I want from you..." Jenkins began lightly as he started to grind his lit cigarette into the already burn-covered flesh between Roy's shoulder blades. The Colonel gritted his teeth against the pain, but made no sound. He was almost used to it by now. Almost. "...is a few answers. That's all."_

_Roy said nothing._

"_Hm. You've been awful quiet for the past few days. Really, I'm starting to miss your clever quips and snide little remarks. Are we starting to get under your skin, you piece of shit? Have you shut your mouth because you're afraid of what you might say?"_

"_Fuck you." Roy rasped thickly, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he opened his eyes and fixed the man with a level gaze. Jenkins smirked and a few of his comrades sniggered from the table in the back of the room where they were playing cards._

_But they really _were_ starting to get under Roy's skin. He hadn't slept in four days, he hadn't eaten in eight, and they had been interrogating him for over two weeks solid, now: breaking his fingers, beating him, burning cigarettes into his back, thrusting thin metal spikes into the meat of his thighs and the backs of his arms... Roy honestly thought that he'd lack the strength to stand if it weren't for the fact that his arms were tied above his head to the rafters. _

_The urge to just give in and tell them everything was almost overwhelming... but no. No, he was Roy Mustang. He was Colonel FUCKING Roy Mustang and they could not break him. _

"_Oh, come on, pal..."Jenkins started up again. "All we want is that blond alchemist brat. I know you know where he is, or at least how we can track him down. Just give us some information about that little heretic and you and your men can go home. It's as simple as that."_

_The Colonel closed his eyes and swallowed more blood. So it was this again. The questioning usually fluctuated between them wanting to know about the eventual fate of their city and information on the overall weaknesses in the military... but somehow it always came back to Ed._

"_Our Prophet Cornello is a kind man and that brat took advantage of his hospitality. Not only that, but he sullied our entire city with his blasphemy... All we want is a little justice. You can understand that, can't you, Colonel?"_

_The Colonel kept his peace, pressing his tongue against the ragged void where his molar used to be in the hopes that it might make the bleeding stop._

_Jenkins sighed again patronizingly and bent over to retrieve the red-smeared length of pipe. "Shall we keep going with the pipe then? I can switch to the pliers, if you'd rather." He smiled, amused by his own offhand cruelty._

"_The pipe is fine," Roy said, the same politeness echoing dully from his bleeding mouth. "But promise to hit harder this time, otherwise you're just embarrassing yourself. Maybe you can call upon your fuck-up of a god for strength... because we can all see how very much he's helped your people thus far."_

_Jenkins's face darkened, his false camaraderie sizzling away into anger. Roy allowed himself to smile, pleased. There was little else that the Colonel could do other than goad his captors, insulting their god and angering them in the hopes that one day they would go too far... hit him just a little too hard and kill him. That was his only release. That was his only hope._

_Jenkins hefted the pipe languidly and stood in front of the Colonel._

"_As you wish." He spat, then brought the thing down against the side of Roy's jaw in one violent, enraged blow that splattered blood in a dark arc across the floor..._

...Roy opened his eyes and then closed them again with a sigh.

He'd been dreaming.

He was constantly dreaming, it seemed. Even when he wasn't asleep.

Often, he couldn't even distinguish the nightmares from the horrors he faced day in, day out... Best not to think about it now; he should get more sleep while he could, for who knew when he'd be allowed such a luxury again...?

But then he paused.

Slowly, his sluggish mind processed the brief sight that had graced his sensitive eyes before he'd closed them again. He forced his eyes back open and stared at the ceiling above him, absorbing the smooth whiteness of it. A sudden fear pierced him.

_Where am I? Where am I where am I _fuck_ where am I?_

He didn't know where he was... he wasn't in the high-ceilinged auditorium where he'd been imprisoned for so long... this room was smaller, cramped. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic. His breath caught in his lungs painfully, lurching from him in panicked gasps as he tried to get his bearings. He was in a bed. In a small room. One window. Dark sky outside. White, white, white... all around, white.

"...Are you awake?" a voice asked suddenly.

Roy's heart jolted in his chest and he shot his eyes over to look for the source of the voice. A man was sitting in a chair beside the bed. The man sat absolutely still, his hand frozen in the middle of turning the page of a book. Slowly, as if afraid of startling him, the man moved his chair closer and laid his hands on the bed's metal railing.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked tentatively.

"M-Maes." Roy rasped, the name coming to his lips before his mind had even processed it. "Maes Hughes."

Maes' pale face broke into a huge smile, tears brightening the corners of his eyes.

"My god, Roy." He laughed, dabbing at his eyes with his shirtsleeve "You don't know how good it is to hear my name coming from your mouth."

Roy stared at him uncertainly for a moment then looked away, his eyes wandering back up to the ceiling. He was disoriented, his mind clouded and confused. He was in pain, but it was a distant, dull sort of pain that was a stark contrast to the remembered pain of his dream. He couldn't (_why is everything so fucking white?_) focus.

Maes ghosted his hand forward and brushed his fingers against Roy's arm. Roy jerked away from him as if shocked, his heart startled into a frantic rhythm. He pressed himself back against the railing on the other side of the bed, trying to get as far away from Maes as he could.

"_Don't touch me_!" He hissed automatically, his voice cracking.

Maes pulled his hand back quickly, alarm and pity and deep sadness contorting his face. Roy closed his eyes tightly and tried to get a hold of himself. No, no, no... this was Maes. _Maes_, for fuck's sake! Maes wouldn't hurt him... Maes wouldn't, Maes wouldn't...

_(Yes, he would. He'll hurt you... he'll kill you...)_

_Maes wouldn't Maes wouldn't Maes wouldn't..._

"It's okay, Roy..." Maes whispered, his voice pained and raw. "You're safe. You're in a hospital."

"In... in Central?" Roy ventured after a beat, trying to think beyond the dark whisperings of his exhausted mind. Roy's words sounded strange and warped to his own ears.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right." The other man encouraged, finding another smile and placing it tremblingly on his lips. "We... we brought you back a little over two weeks ago."

Roy looked down at himself, his eyes traveling over the splints that were wrapped around some of his fingers. Some of his fingernails were growing back. His arms were covered in scars and healing cuts, some of which were still taped with gauze.

"How bad...?" he asked, flexing his hands.

"Well," Maes began cautiously, "you have a lot of fractures and broken bones. Your leg is an absolute mess, but it's much better than it was when you first came in. You're covered in cuts and scrapes and there was some... _tearing_." he said the word hesitantly, but Roy's fogged mind was too distracted to know what was meant by his tone and so let it slide.

"Oh." was all that Roy could think to say.

"You're okay, though." Maes hastened to add, tilting his head to the side and watching Roy in an unsettling way. "You're healing really well."

"And my men...? Did you find my men?"

That stopped Maes. His smile disappeared again and he looked away, his green eyes focusing lamely on his hands. "I don't think that now is the best time to discuss it," he mumbled, "I mean... I'm sure you don't realize it, but you've basically been in a coma for the last two weeks and... and I should go get a nurse or something... someone should know that you're conscious..."

He was babbling. Even in Roy's current state, he could see that Maes was very uncomfortable with this subject and that could only mean that things had been very, _very_ bad for Roy's men.

"_Maes_." Roy pressed, his fear returning to him in a cold wave. "How many of my boys came home?"

"Roy... really, you've been through hell. We can talk about this later."

"Major Hughes, I am giving you a direct order to answer me!" Roy practically shouted in his sudden panic, his voice hoarse from disuse. In all the years that they'd known one another, Roy had never once pulled rank on Maes, but he wanted to know how badly he had failed his men... _needed_ to know how many of them had fallen because of his (_you failure, you useless murdering whore_) weakness as a leader.

"...Seventeen survived." Maes said finally, his wavering voice so quiet that Roy scarcely heard him. Roy's mouth went dry, the shock of that low number slamming into him so hard that the corners of his vision went momentarily black.

"...Seventeen...?"

_That's it?_

_(You killed them.)_

Maes swallowed hard and nodded, looking away again.

It didn't seem possible. Out of the sixty men that he'd led into Lior (_sixty!_), less than a third of them had survived? They had entrusted their lives to their commander and he had failed them. He had failed them all.

(_"Still not talking, you son of a bitch? We're killing your men right in front of you and still you won't talk? Not even to save their lives? Some great leader you are, you murderer, you demon... I hope that God forgives you, because there's a special place in Hell for those who allow their own men to be killed when they could easily stop the bloodshed with just a few words..."_)

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I have to... I... I can't... god, I'm so sorry..._

"...Roy? Are you okay?"

Roy blinked and looked up at him, dispelling the memories and the voices in his head. _Was_ he okay? It was a simple yes or no question, but he found himself honestly not knowing how to reply. Maes' face was so sad... tears had formed in his eyes again, dampening his dark lashes. Roy looked at him for a moment blankly, not trusting himself to feel the sick, churning emotions that he was trying to shove to the back of his mind where he wouldn't have to think about them. He _couldn't _think about them right now.

_I'm so sorry..._

Without giving Maes any sort of answer, Roy rolled over onto his side, facing away from him and resting his forehead on the cold railing of the bed, hugging himself and shuddering. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't, he couldn't, he could NOT.

"Do... do you want me to leave?" Maes asked softly, his hitched voice echoing in the small (_whitewhitewhite_) chamber.

Roy stiffened.

"I don't care," his mouth said.

_No, no, no don't leave me, Maes. Oh god, please, please, please don't leave me alone again..._ his mind screamed.

Maes fell silent and Roy curled inward on himself, his broken, stiffly splinted leg sending shards of pain up to his hip as he tried to move it. He couldn't breathe. It was as if something were weighing on his chest, making him gasp, making him tremble, making his vision blur and his throat constrict.

_I can't. I can't. I can't I can't I can't I..._

_(Of course you can't, you weakling, you failure...)_

He bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly.

_Stop it._

In all the time that he had spent in that dark, blood-spattered auditorium, Roy had never once given in to his emotions. Not when they beat him senseless, not when they blew Private Zane's brains out right in front of him because the Colonel refused to talk... not even when they held Roy down and (_don't touch me_) did things to him, making his remaining men watch as he was violated. After all that, he had no right to cry now. He had no business succumbing to it, not when he showed no remorse for his men as they were (_the side of his head caved in... chunks of damaged flesh and brain tissue leaking from his nose and my god he was only nineteen_) slaughtered because of his silence. Because of _him_. To give in now... to feel anguish—and, yes, even _relief_ that he had been torn from his private little hell—wasn't it a form of betrayal? Wasn't it so wrong?

_Stop it. Just stop it._

He bit his lip harder and tasted blood, that oh-so-familiar copper tang. He was holding back any actual tears, but he could not make himself stop shaking and gasping like a pathetic weakling, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

A hand rested hesitantly on Roy's shoulder. The touch was very soft, as if asking for permission to be there. Roy's skin crawled with the gentle contact, recent experience screaming at him to flinch away while his soul cried out for _more_. Roy reached back over his shoulder and took Maes' hand in his own. Slowly, he pulled his friend's arm down across him and pressed his face against Maes' open palm, gasping his anguish through clenched teeth and wanting to be held but too terrified to ask for it.

Maes made a soft keening sound and shifted, moving closer. Carefully, he slid onto the hospital bed next to Roy, laying himself against him in the cramped space. Roy leaned back into his warmth, one half of him desperate for human contact while the other half (_don't touch me don't touch me_) was sickened and frightened by his closeness, filling his head with silent screams. Maes moved his hand back to Roy's shoulder and gently coaxed him into rolling back over so that they were face-to-face. Roy looked up at him, registered the tear-tracks that marred his best friend's cheeks, and was overpowered by the intense emotion in those moss-colored eyes.

"It's over. It's okay, Roy... it's over." Maes whispered, cupping the back of Roy's head and stroking his hair. That was all he said, but that was all he needed to say.

_It's over? _

Roy's heart stumbled painfully and his ragged, panicked breathing fell still for a moment as he absorbed Maes' words. Then, slowly, Roy lowered his head to rest against Maes' collarbone... took a deep breath... and _sobbed_.

Maes instantly wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close to his chest as he would a hysterical child and speaking soft words that held absolutely no meaning. Roy wept hard into the grey fabric of Maes' shirt, smelling that god-awful cologne that he always insisted on wearing because Elysia had given it to him for Father's Day last year. As much as Roy had hated that smell three months ago, now it was like a drug that he couldn't get enough of. It was a scent that absolutely represented Maes Hughes and the safety of his warmth.

_It's over. It's over. It's over. _ The words repeated themselves in Roy's head as he clutched Maes and sobbed with such terrible, nauseated, exhausted, ecstatic violence that he thought he was going to die. And he would have died gladly, cradled in Maes' strong, protective, _safe_ embrace. He choked and wept, too overwhelmed to do anything other than burrow himself against Maes and cry... feeling him, smelling him, and forgetting everything in his powerful grip.

_It's over it's over it's over..._

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A nurse came in and sedated Roy not too long afterward. His sick panic had made his monitors go crazy, alerting the medical staff that the stress-level on his heart was dangerously high. He'd also bitten through his lower lip in his frantic emotion, dyeing Maes' shirt with spots of red. Maes had tried for several minutes to calm his friend as he shuddered and wept in his arms, but nothing Maes did or said seemed to make any difference.

Roy didn't notice when the nurse came in, but when she tried to make Maes leave, his panic quickly morphed into full-fledged hysteria. Roy clung to Maes with a frighteningly violent sort of need, screaming and desperately begging him not to leave. He calmed himself a little when the nurse quietly agreed to let Maes stay, but she still insisted on drugging him before leaving them alone.

Even after Roy was knocked utterly senseless by the tranquilizers Maes continued to hold him, stroking his back and whispering words of comfort. Roy's eyes closed and his harsh sobbing quieted, but he didn't fall asleep immediately as the drug worked its way through his bloodstream.

He mumbled something groggily, his breath hitching in his chest.

"What did you say?" Maes asked.

"Ed..." Roy rasped, obviously having trouble staying alert. "He... is he alive...?"

A soft, sad smile brushed against Maes' lips in spite of himself. "Yeah, he's fine."

"They took him... I-I couldn't... I'm sorry..."

"...He wasn't really there, Roy. He was never in Lior."

"No... no, I saw him... He..."

"He's fine, I promise. I just spoke with him this morning... You must have dreamed it."

Maes immediately decided not to tell Roy about the little episode he'd had with Ed that morning. He didn't need the added strain... Besides, he was so drugged out that he probably wouldn't remember Maes telling him about it anyway.

"Need to... to talk to him..."

"I'll tell him."

"And... want m-my gloves..."

"...Your gloves?"

Roy made a tiny, affirming sound and fell still, his shuddering breath warm against Maes' chest. Maes sighed and tucked Roy's head under his chin, closing his stinging eyes as he felt his damaged comrade relax completely into the dark embrace of sleep.

The Major didn't really know what he had expected to happen when—_if_, really—Roy woke up from his dead-eyed state... but he certainly hadn't expected a complete meltdown like this. Not immediately, at least. Roy was the kind of person who held on to his pain, hiding it until it grew past his ability to keep it under control and only then would he succumb to it... though he'd fight against his own sorrow the whole way down.

Not to say that Maes begrudged Roy his anguished venting. No, not at all... Maes was actually a little glad that Roy had opened himself so quickly, exposing his rawness so that Maes could help him heal. It was unexpected and deeply anguishing, but Maes thought that a breakdown now would be better for Roy in the long run...

Maybe tomorrow he'd be better, more lucid and aware of what had happened and what was going on around him. There were some hard conversations that they needed to have... some horrible things that they needed to discuss so that Roy could move past what he'd been through. Tomorrow would certainly be too soon to delve very deeply into Roy's pain, but when he was ready, Maes silently promised that he would be there to listen.

But still, Maes was getting ahead of himself. If Roy's breakdown had taught him anything, it was that Maes wasn't going to be able to predict how the broken man was going to work through this. Whatever it took, though... Maes would do it. He had sworn an oath to himself, to the doctors, and especially to Roy that he would do anything to help him.

A small, mewling sound of distress issued from Roy's throat, his brow furrowed by dreams.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ed stepped into the office, feeling a little awkward. The staff looked up briefly as he entered, but most of them went back to their work morosely after giving him a nod of greeting. Hawkeye, however, smiled wanly at him from her desk.

"Good morning, Fullmetal." she said, gesturing for him to come in and sit.

"'Morning..." he mumbled, seating himself across from her.

"...Can I help you with something?" she asked when he just sat there dumbly, staring down at his hands.

"No, not really... I was just wondering about... you know..."

Hawkeye smiled sadly and her shoulders slumped a little, "No, we haven't had any news about him since yesterday. Major Hughes stayed the night with him, so we're waiting for him to come in to tell us anything new."

Ed nodded slowly. His encounter with the Colonel yesterday had scared him badly. He couldn't sleep last night because he kept thinking about Mustang's haunted, tortured eyes... and how even in the depths of his frantic hysteria, he had still been trying to protect Ed. Deep guilt was gnawing away at his insides, even though both Hughes and Al had told him that none of this was his fault... but how the hell did they know whether or not he was responsible for this? Only Mustang knew for sure.

"Major Hughes said that he recognized you..." Hawkeye prompted, tilting her head to the side and watching Ed hopefully, "but he really didn't tell us more than that."

Ed sighed, "Yeah. He knew me but he was... hallucinating, I guess. He thought he was still in Lior. He tried to attack Hughes because he thought he was going to hurt me."

"I see." Hawkeye said at length, looking both disappointed and a little disturbed, "Well, any reaction is better than no reaction at this point, I suppose."

Ed nodded faintly, but made no comment.

Hawkeye favored him with another unhappy half-smile and rested her hand atop his in a sign of shared concern. He looked up at her a little uncomfortably, but something else had drawn her attention. She stiffened, her gentle hand suddenly clutching Ed's tightly as she looked past him toward the open doorway. Ed looked over his shoulder and saw Major Hughes step distractedly into the room.

Everyone in the office held a collective breath as the man entered, rubbing his face with one hand and looking absolutely exhausted. After a beat or two he raised his head, realized bemusedly that everyone was staring at him expectantly, and smirked.

"Well... he's talking."

"Like... really _talking_ talking?" Lieutenant Havoc asked with hopeful incredulity, "Or just... babbling?"

Hughes' smirk broadened into a true grin. "He's _really_ talking. Making eye-contact and everything."

Hawkeye exhaled and squeezed Ed's hand in silent, reserved celebration as both Havoc and Breda gave matching hoots of victory. Fuery lowered his head onto his desk with a weak little moan of relief and Falman clapped him on the shoulder with a rare smile. Ed felt the tightness in his own chest dissipate slightly at Hughes' words and he closed his eyes with a sigh. _Yes._

"He's alright, then?" Hawkeye asked, the smallest hint of desperation in her voice.

Hughes' grin faltered a little and he shrugged, seating himself on the corner of a desk. Ed suddenly noticed that the man had little smears of dried blood staining his t-shirt. He ardently decided not to ask about it.

"I think it's too soon to tell," Hughes said, "I mean, he called me by name last night and asked questions... but he wasn't really himself. He made me tell him how many casualties there were in Lior and... well, he didn't take the news very well. He kind of... lost it... and had to be sedated again. He was still asleep when I left this morning."

The joy that had entered the room just moments before deflated somewhat and the office was filled with a disappointed silence in its wake.

"I don't mean to say that I think he won't _be_ alright..." Hughes hastened to amend, "I'm just saying that it's probably going to take some time. He was very badly damaged. No one outside of Roy and his surviving troops know exactly what happened to him there, but Riza and I both saw the state he was in when we found him. I don't think it would be fair of us to expect him to just jump up and be his old self again just because he's lucid. Not right away, at least."

Several of Mustang's staff nodded silently and sat back in their chairs looking unsettled, but still warily optimistic.

"Can we see him?" Hawkeye asked quietly then suddenly realized that she was still squeezing Ed's hand and let him go.

Again, Hughes looked a little cautious and considered her question a moment before answering, "I don't know if that would be a good idea... but I'll ask him. Now that he's awake, he should have some say in the matter." He paused for a moment, then turned to Ed for the first time since he'd entered the room. "He does want to talk to you, however."

"Me? Why me?" Ed sputtered, disarmed.

"He asked about you. I don't think he believes me that you're still alive. I think he remembers some twisted fragments about his little episode yesterday and is convinced that you were taken in Lior. It might put him a bit more at ease if you came to see him."

A tight ball of anxiety formed in the pit of Ed's stomach. He did not want to go see Mustang. His last encounter with the Colonel had disturbed him deeply and, while he was worried about Mustang and overjoyed to hear that he was doing better, the thought of seeing him again... so broken and mentally unstable...

...It was just really hard to see him like that.

"Did he say anything else?" Fuery asked tentatively, finally raising his head up from the desk, his eyes over-bright with suppressed tears.

"Not a whole lot." Hughes responded, thankfully tearing his gaze away from Edward to look sympathetically at Fuery. "He asked about his injuries and about his men... and of course he asked about Ed, but other than that he didn't say much. Although, after he was pretty doped up on the sedatives, he did mention that he wanted his gloves... but that's really all he said. He was pretty out of it. I think his mind kept wandering... remembering things, probably. He'd get this horrified look on his face..."

Hughes trailed off and shook himself, forcing himself to smile again in a way that was almost painful to watch. "Anyway, he's doing really well, I think. Comparatively."

There was a mumbling of general concurrence in the office and Hughes got to his feet again. "I'm going to go home and catch a shower... maybe sleep for a bit and then head back to the hospital. I'll let you guys know how he's doing this evening."

He waved a fond—though tired-looking—goodbye and moved to exit the room, but then paused a moment.

"Just stop by when you can, Ed." He tossed over his shoulder, "See you later!"

And with that, he was gone.

Ed clenched his jaw, the anxious ball in his stomach making his insides churn uncomfortably. Hawkeye, ever intuitive, seemed to sense his disquiet and gave him another soft smile. Ed looked up at her, and for the first time registered the dark circles under her eyes. Like Hughes, she was tired with that bone-deep kind of fatigue that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. She had probably been holding herself together by the thinnest of threads in the face of this tragedy so that she would be an example of strength for the rest of Mustang's bereaved staff. She looked strained but hopeful now, Hughes' optimistic information brightening her eyes.

"You don't have to go in today," she told him sympathetically, sounding a great deal less heavyhearted than she had when Ed had first stepped in. "In fact, it's probably a good idea that you don't... From what the Major said, the Colonel would probably appreciate some privacy right now."

Ed relaxed a little, gratitude calming his nerves now that the Lieutenant had released him from the unease of seeing the Colonel again, at least for another day.

"Okay. I guess I should go back to the dorms and tell Al the good news, then." Ed said lamely, eager to leave the emotionally charged office. Hawkeye nodded to him, looking as if she not only understood him, but wished that she could leave as well. Ed favored her with a wry smirk and bid her farewell.


	4. Façade

Nurse Carol Smith pushed open the door to Colonel Mustang's hospital room with her rather generous hip, maneuvering her way into the chamber while balancing gauze and antiseptics on a thin metal tray. She looked down at the bed's occupant and smiled. Mustang was still asleep, but he was sleeping on his side in an entirely natural way. For the past two weeks, the man had stayed in whatever position they'd arranged him in the night before since he was catatonic and did not shift in his sleep. Now though, it was easy to see by his curled position and his rumpled sheets that he'd been tossing and turning during the night.

The night nurse, Ellen had informed Carol just a few hours ago of Mustang's return to consciousness the night before and Carol had been overjoyed to hear the news. Over the past two weeks, she'd grown very fond of Maes Hughes, and to think that he'd been able to talk to his best friend again after all this time was certainly cause for celebration. The beaming—though exhausted—smile on Major Hughes' face when he left this morning was proof enough of that. Sure, the Colonel had eventually dissolved into hysterics and needed sedation, but at least he'd been cognizant for a while.

Carol had been very invested in Mustang's health since day one. Not to say that she cared for the rest of her patients any less, but she had also treated many of the men that had been in Lior under his command and had heard the stories of his bravery and self-sacrifice on the battlefield... suffice it to say, nearly everyone in the hospital was rallying for Mustang's recovery. Many of the wounded soldiers had asked about him daily, two of whom had been his fellow prisoners and witnesses to his long weeks of torture. Both refused to talk about the experience other than to say that neither of them was abused anywhere near as badly as their beloved Colonel had been.

Carol put down the tray and moved to Mustang's bedside. She took his arm gently and lifted it, peeling off a swatch of gauze that covered a long line of stitches on his forearm. Mustang stirred slightly at her touch, but did not wake.

The wound looked pretty good. It had been a deep, festering gash when they'd brought him in, but now the flesh was knitting beautifully; the doctor would probably let her remove the stitches within the next few days. With a satisfied smile, Carol dabbed antiseptic onto the wound carefully, watching Mustang's face closely as she worked. His brow was furrowed slightly; no doubt because the disinfecting agent stung his damaged flesh. A low whimper resonated from his throat and Carol stopped applying the salve, feeling that he was close to waking up.

"Colonel Mustang?" she asked softly, "Sir?"

At her quiet words Mustang's eyes flew open and he stiffened, his startled gaze flashing over to look at her with an expression of dazed terror. He jerked his arm out of her gentle grasp and tried to move away from her, pushing himself to the opposite side of the bed.

"Shh... It's okay, sweetheart..." she said soothingly, keeping her voice low and mellow. "My name is Carol. I'm a nurse here in the hospital."

For a moment he didn't say anything, but then he mumbled, "Hospital... Central..." as if reminding himself of something that he'd forgotten. Carol slowly reached forward for his arm again, but he flinched away from her.

"I need to finish cleaning and bandaging your arm," she told him kindly, entirely unsurprised by his skittishness. Mustang looked down at his arm as if unaware that he was wounded and then turned his dark, uncertain eyes back on Carol. He hesitated for a moment longer, then cautiously moved back toward her and allowed her to take his arm.

As gently as she was able, Carol finished cleaning the gash and began to tape fresh gauze over it. Mustang watched her like a hawk the whole time, his body tensed with an intense distrust that he was visibly trying to shake off. He knew that she was no threat to him... he _knew_ that, but that did not make him any less afraid of her. Carol had dealt with torture victims before—not many, but a few—and remembered well how long it took to gain their trust.

"You seem to be doing much better," she said brightly as she rolled up the remaining length of gauze and set it back on the tray. "It's nice to see you alert."

Mustang looked at her uncomfortably as if unsure of how he was supposed to respond to her statement. Finally he looked away from her, his expression disturbed. His mind wasn't quite right still, that was plain to see... but Carol didn't expect any more from him. Torture victims—especially those who had faced the severity of the torture that Mustang had endured—were typically wounded much further than any physical manifestation. The poor man must be reeling now, his unbalanced mind trying to cope with everything that had happened.

"Major Hughes was very happy that he got to talk to you last night," she prodded, hoping that the familiar name would put him more at ease. As she had anticipated, he turned back to her.

"Maes? Where... where is he?" he asked, some of the suspicion dissipating from his pale face.

"He left a few hours ago... but I expect him back before too long. He's barely left your side since he brought you in."

"I... saw him. Last night," he recalled, more to himself than to her.

"That's right," she encouraged, "Do you remember what you talked about?"

He looked like he was about to reply, but then his face darkened. A change came over him suddenly: the fearful confusion in his eyes disappeared behind an abrupt façade of hardness and he straightened himself, managing to pull himself up to sit upright against the headboard. His gaze became even and cold, his face guardedly expressionless.

"I don't remember," he said flatly.

Carol balked slightly at his unexpected shift in demeanor. His newfound collected coldness was unquestionably an act. It was pretty impressive that he was able to shut himself off from his feelings so quickly... but it was also pretty sad. Still, after being tormented so violently for so long it had probably been necessary for him to put his emotions on the back burner at times...

It was just heart wrenching to see that he'd gotten so good at it.

"...That's okay, darling." Carol said flippantly after a moment's pause. "It's normal for you to be a little forgetful after being catatonic for two weeks." She didn't believe for one second that he had really forgotten his conversation with Hughes the night before, but whatever it had been about was obviously too distressing for Mustang to allow himself to think about now and so she didn't press him. She would let Hughes worry about that.

Speak of the devil; Mustang's head jerked up as he heard a noise at the door and Hughes stepped in cautiously. For a moment they just looked at each other a little awkwardly, but then Hughes inched forward and sat on the corner of the bed.

"Good morning," he said, a lopsided smile lilting his words, "How are you feeling?"

"...I don't know," Mustang replied, looking away. He didn't sound like he was trying to be evasive, it seemed he just honestly didn't know how to translate how he felt into words. Hughes looked over at him, chewing his bottom lip. He reached over to rest his hand on his friend's arm, but Mustang stiffened and flinched away as he had done with Carol.

"Don't touch me... please, Maes." He mumbled, adding the last part almost apologetically as Hughes gave him a look of pained surprise. Clearly, Hughes had been expecting him to be as clingy as he'd been the night before and the fact that he wasn't robbed Hughes of a method of comforting him.

"Okay, that's fine." Hughes said quickly, forcing another smile to cover his suddenly lost expression, "I understand."

A tense silence filled the room then, weighing on all of them like a thick layer of dust. Carol picked up the tray and straightened, taking this as her cue to leave them alone together. She was sure that they had a lot to discuss and she did not need to play witness to any of it.

"I'll come by and check on you after a while," she told Mustang, then turned to Hughes with an encouraging smile and patted him on the shoulder as she made her exit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes watched Roy uncertainly, trying to decide how to best approach him. He didn't want to be touched—that much was clear—and even though Maes desperately just wanted to hold him again, he knew better than to try.

Maes was a very tactile person. He hugged everyone. He often reached over and touched people while he was talking to them and always offered physical contact as a form of comfort. Maes had always been this way, but it had intensified greatly after his daughter was born. Roy, on the other hand, was almost the exact opposite. He had always been very insistent about his personal space. Maes was the only person in the world who could get away with flinging an arm around Roy's shoulders as they walked down the street together or grabbing him and hugging him for no reason at all.

Roy usually tolerated Maes' boyish affections with eye-rolls and loud sighs, but he'd never really complained about it or refused it. While he didn't complain though, he didn't typically reciprocate either. Of all the times that he and Maes had hugged over the years, only twice had the embrace been initiated by Roy—once just after Elysia had been born and once on the day Maes' father died. Maes understood that it took a lot for Roy to let down his defensive walls and touch someone, but he had never completely rejected—or even perhaps _feared_—Maes' touch before.

Maes had never seen the injured man as closed-off as he was now. Roy wasn't even _looking_ at him. Of course, Maes quietly understood his reasons... but it was still disheartening that he'd retreated back within himself again after his short breakdown the night before.

Well, these things do take time.

"I talked to Ed this morning." Maes said, hoping to lure Roy into conversation.

Roy looked up at him as intently as if Maes had just told him that the sun had exploded.

"He's okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. I told you that he wasn't in Lior... do you remember? He's—"

"I didn't tell them anything."

Maes stopped talking, the sudden desperation in Roy's voice squeezing his heart with pity. "I believe you," Maes said finally, watching as Roy drew up his unbroken leg and wrapped his arms around himself protectively. His onyx eyes became dark and haunted, his thoughts distant and plainly upset.

"Do you want to talk about it...?" Maes asked, his entire being aching to hold his friend and soothe his troubled mind.

"No."

Maes worked his jaw and clenched his hands uselessly in his lap. Roy closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself. After an impossibly long stretch of silence, he opened them again. They were suddenly hard and piercing. He raised his gaze back up to Maes, his demeanor abruptly businesslike.

"Major, report."

Maes blinked for a moment, taken off-guard, but then he understood and got to his feet, standing at attention and saluting his Colonel. Maes knew what was expected of him now and felt a little more at ease; Roy wanted to retreat behind the mask he wore as Colonel Mustang and tacitly demanded that Major Hughes do the same. This was not uncommon practice for Roy, and Maes was more than happy to oblige his professional military decorum if it meant helping him adjust.

So, with the calculated coldness that can only be learned by being in the military for so many years, Major Hughes launched into an emotionless report of what was going on in Lior. He told him about how he and Hawkeye lead the rescue mission the moment that they had been given clearance from the Fuhrer, collecting all the bodies and survivors that they could find and bringing them back to Central. Maes briefly described how they found Roy in the auditorium, bound and beaten as he detachedly listed off elements.

"And you'd been like that ever since, sir . Until yesterday, that is. That was two weeks ago."

"That's..." Roy started, but then trailed off as if searching for an adequate word, "...interesting."

Maes watched Roy's mind wander vaguely and paused in his report, waiting for the Colonel to reestablish eye-contact. After a few moments, Roy looked up at him again, his expression entirely implacable. He had always been very good at keeping his feelings to himself.

Maes continued on and told him that Brigadier General Shanks had been sent in with nearly four hundred troops almost three weeks ago and most of the guerrillas had surrendered to them, choosing to go quietly now that they were so outnumbered. Maes also told him that Dahveed Jenkins, the leader of the rebellion had been captured and was being held in Central. The Major caught a flicker of grim satisfaction cross Roy's face.

Finally, Maes wrapped up his report with a brief detailing of the surviving soldiers' health. He could tell that Roy was glad to hear that they were all doing well and most of them had long been discharged from the hospital. Roy nodded slowly to himself as Maes finished the report, silently mulling over everything.

"I want a list of names of the casualties," he said after a few beats.

"Yes, sir."

"Is anyone else still in the hospital?"

Maes thought for a moment. "There are three other than you, I believe. Privates Nelson and Cornell and then Lieutenant Beal."

Roy's eyes grew slightly wider. "Beal survived...? What about Jordan?" he asked hopefully.

"Private Jordan was discharged last week, sir."

Roy closed his eyes briefly and leaned his head back against the headboard, looking painfully relieved.

Maes smiled and sat down on the corner of the bed again, thinking that it was safe for him to drop his military-man act now that Roy was in a better state of mind.

"I want to see Beal." Roy said suddenly, opening his eyes.

"Okay, I'll let him know."

Maes knew why Roy had asked about Lieutenant Beal and Private Jordan specifically; of the eight men who had been captured alongside Roy, they were the only two who had survived the entire ordeal with him. For five weeks they had endured agony together in Lior, watching in horrified silence as everyone else around them was slowly killed off.

Beal and Jordan had been found in Lior not half an hour after Maes found Roy. Maes remembered vividly how the injured men had staggered forward seemingly out of nowhere, carrying between them the limp form of Private Lindor. Both men had been relieved to see that Roy had already been found and was being treated. Jordan didn't talk much, but Beal had insisted on reporting to Maes even as the medic team was cleaning and bandaging his wounds.

"The Colonel broke us out of there a few days ago," Beal had said, his voice hitched with pain and fatigue, "He ordered us to leave without him because he couldn't walk and we couldn't carry both him and Lindor... I said we'd come back for him when the coast was clear and we did, watching from outside the window in the back and waiting for a chance to grab him and take him to our hiding place. But... well, those motherfuckers had been very angry that he'd helped us escape... by the time we got back, there wasn't much left of him for us to save."

Beal had not gone into detail about how badly they had beaten Roy after they discovered that his allies were missing, but mentioned that the Colonel had been completely coherent beforehand... and was in the catatonic state that Maes found him in afterward.

"He did that a lot, actually, toward the end..." Beal had said in reference to Roy's methodic listing of the elements, "When the pain got too bad for him, or if he thought he was close to letting information spill. It was like he would just... go away for a while, his mind wandering off somewhere else while his body was being torn apart. But this time... his mind just never came back." Then Beal had looked up at Maes, suddenly desperate, "I was sure that he was going to die that night, whether or not we took him away from there... If I had known he could still survive, I would have never left him again..."

The guilt in Beal's eyes then had been profound and when Maes had seen him last—just a few days ago, actually—the guilt was still there. It would probably do both Roy and Beal good to see each other and know that they were okay. There is no bond in the world stronger than that forged between soldiers during war. Maes knew that from experience.

"Speaking of people seeing you..." Maes remembered suddenly, "Your staff has requested audience with you. I told them I'd ask you if you were up to it."

Roy looked hesitant for a moment and thought silently for a few beats before admitting, "...I don't know if I'm comfortable with that just yet..." Roy's voice was low and disturbed, sounding almost frightened at the prospect of seeing his friends.

"That's okay. I told them it was probably too soon... you have a lot of adjusting to do, after all..."

Roy nodded wordlessly, but his unsettled expression did not ease. He wrapped his arms more tightly around himself and shuddered. Like Maes, Roy had dropped his military façade and now his nervous, unbalanced rawness was visible again, sending daggers of sorrow into Maes' heart. He looked completely overwhelmed. He looked like he wanted to cry or scream. He looked as if every terror known to man was running through his damaged mind on a brutal and never-ending loop of torment.

"...I'm so sorry that this happened, Roy..." Maes ventured softly, unable to keep the grief from his voice. "You never should have been put in that situation."

Roy looked down at his bandaged hands and did not reply, biting his already-injured lip.

"Stop that. You'll split it open again." Maes told him, allowing himself to give a faintly paternal smile.

"I'm used to it being split open." Roy shrugged as if unconcerned. Maes' smile faltered and his stomach turned with sick sadness. Roy must have realized the morbidity of his statement, for he looked suddenly embarrassed and turned away from Maes, easing himself back down onto the bed so that he could curl onto his side under the blankets.

"I'm tired." Roy rasped after a long stretch of painful silence.

"I don't doubt it." Maes replied gently, "Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep?"

Maes didn't get an answer, but he hadn't really been expecting one. Roy didn't feel safe, Maes understood that, but he also understood that no matter how terrified Roy was, he could probably never bring himself to ask for Maes' protection... especially not now, when Roy _knew_ that he was safe and still wanted someone to watch his back. Perhaps that's why Roy and Maes had always been so close; they understood each other without words.

"Okay, Roy. I'll be right here if you need me."

Roy gave no response other than to curl himself into a tighter ball and close his eyes.


	5. Five Seconds

"_Still not gonna talk? You're being very rude, Colonel."_

_Roy raised his head a little, unsure of who was speaking to him. He kept phasing in and out of consciousness and had actually forgotten for a moment that he was still being interrogated. The mind does funny things when it's deprived of sleep and nourishment, especially when the skull surrounding that mind has been repeatedly whacked with various blunt objects over the course of a few weeks. Well, at least he was tied to a chair now instead of being bound in a standing position... that little fact by itself made it so that Roy could think more clearly._

"_I mean, you didn't even say hello to me when I came in this morning... very rude, indeed."_

_Ah, yes. It was Jenkins again. Oh, Jenkins... that lovely, lovely man. How the fuck could Roy ever forget about him?_

"_Wh-where are my... my m-manners...?" Roy slurred dryly, his thoughts too disjointed and his body into much pain to bother with keeping his voice strong. He'd given that up days ago. Roy closed his eyes and continued to goad his captor, although his heart really wasn't in it anymore. The sarcasm and insults just came automatically, a conditioned response to pain. "You'll have to t-teach me a lesson."_

"_Oh, I intend to."_

_Roy heard Jenkins move closer and flinched in expectation of another blow. When it didn't come, Roy cracked open his only eye that wasn't swollen shut and looked up._

_Jenkins leered down at him, his wide mouth stretched into a hideous smile so huge that it contorted his greasy face into something demonic. Roy's heart stopped in his chest, suddenly terrified into stillness. It was not Jenkins' smug grin that so frightened Roy, nor the pistol that he held at the ready in his cruel, thick-fingered hand... what alarmed him was the fact that the pistol's barrel was pressed against Private Zane's temple so hard that the mouth of the gun had broken skin and was sending tiny streams of blood cascading down the young soldier's cheek._

_Up until this point, the military men and women who had been captured with Roy had been left alone for the most part. Sure, they'd get smacked around a bit when their captors got bored with Roy... but nothing too serious. Most of the time, they just sat back against the wall of the auditorium, their hands and feet trussed together and fastened to the cold brick surface with makeshift shackles, forced to watch as their Colonel was battered and broken in the name of their country... But the fact that Jenkins had suddenly decided to involve one of Roy's men in their little war was startling._

"_Anything to say now, my boy? Anything at all?" Jenkins purred, pressing the gun even more violently against Zane's head. Zane gave a sharp cry and struggled futilely against the bonds that held his arms behind his back, cursing Jenkins brutally through clenched teeth. Roy stared up at Zane, meeting his eyes and reading the barely-concealed terror there. God, he was just a kid..._

"_You're bluffing..." Roy said to Jenkins uneasily, his dark eyes still locked with Zane's bright blue ones. Jenkins was a cruel person, but surely he wouldn't murder a nineteen-year-old boy... surely that evil was below even him..._

"_Am I? You think I wont shoot him?" Jenkins asked, sounding both amused and triumphant. Roy knew that Jenkins could see his doubt. This marked the first time that Jenkins had ever pulled any emotional response other than anger, hate, or dark humor from the Colonel. Roy's doubt and fear must have been intoxicating for Jenkins... he'd been striving for those very emotions for nearly a month now._

_Jenkins smiled lazily down at Roy, then pulled the gun away from Zane's head and Roy felt his insides turn to jelly with relief. But then, without so much as a warning, Jenkins pressed the mouth of the gun against the back of Zane's shoulder and fired._

_Zane screamed as the bullet tore through him, an explosion of blood bursting outward in a fine spray from his shoulder. Zane staggered and Jenkins allowed him to hit his knees in front of his Colonel, bleeding profusely and in too much pain to remain standing. Roy stared down at his youngest soldier in shock and horror as Zane bowed his head and moaned._

"_Believe me now?" Jenkins asked airily, languidly moving the gun back up to Zane's temple._

"_You s-sick son of a bitch..." Roy rasped._

_Jenkins laughed, the sound a grating, terrifying resonance that constantly haunted Roy's dreams whenever he managed to find sleep in this hellhole. The man reached down and grabbed a fistful of Zane's tangled blond hair, harshly wrenching his head back and grinding the gun's barrel against his blood-flecked cheek. Zane whimpered and closed his eyes, just waiting for the pistol to fire._

"_Now that you have some incentive, Colonel..." Jenkins began, "I believe that there are a few things you'd like to tell me."_

"_Let him go, Jenkins..." Roy pleaded, "He doesn't know anything, he's just a lowly soldier! A kid! He's nothing to you!"_

"_You're right; he is nothing to me. But he's something to you."_

_Roy was trapped. He was okay with being tortured... he could handle the pain for the most part and was not afraid of dying. He had been able to deal with it so far. But his men... how could he let them die because he refused to talk...?_

"_I'm waiting, Colonel. You have five seconds to start talking. Five..."_

_It was for the good of the country, right?_

"_Four..."_

_But was it really worth the lives of his men to keep Ed safe? To keep the Fuhrer and all of Amestris safe?_

"_Three..."_

_Zane's pain-glazed, frightened eyes were piercing, tearing into Roy with more agony than any physical pain he'd ever felt. Roy knew that he had to choose now. He had to choose between the boy kneeling in front of him and the boy back home. He had to choose between his men and his country... _

"_Two..."_

_The answer was clear... but how could he look this young man in the eye and tell him that he was not important enough to live? How could he tell Zane that, in the great scheme of things, he was too insignificant to be saved?_

"_One. Time's up, Colonel. This is your last chance."_

"_...I'm sorry, Zane." was all Roy said, his words soft and a little choked, sticking in his blood-clotted mouth. Zane's eyes widened slightly as he understood that he'd been forsaken then he closed them, demurely resigned._

"_...Fine." Jenkins sneered._

_The gunshot was impossibly loud. The side of Zane's head caved in from the trauma of the entrance wound and Jenkins let him go. The body pitched forward and slumped against Roy's leg, the pulpy remains of Zane's head coming to a rest against the Colonel's thigh and coating his leg with the chunks of damaged flesh and brain tissue leaking from Zane's nose._

_Bile and horror rose in the back of Roy's throat and he feebly jerked his leg away. Overbalanced, the body slid to the floor with a wet thud._

_Jenkins laughed._

"_I'm sorry..." Roy whispered to his fallen soldier._

_(Roy?)_

"_God, I'm so s-sorry...!"_

_(Roy!)_

"_I'm sorry, I'm SORRY!"_

_(Roy, wake up!)_

Roy's eyes flashed open as he felt hands upon him and he cried out. Disoriented and terrified, he wrapped his arms around himself protectively and trembled. The person gripping his shoulders (_DON'T TOUCH ME!)_ let go immediately and backed off.

"It's okay, Roy, it's me!" Maes said quickly, looking frightened, "It's just me..."

Roy looked up at him, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

"I didn't have a choice..." Roy gasped, his breath hitching, "I didn't, I swear I didn't..."

"...A choice about what?"

Roy took a breath, trying to calm himself and wiped his face with one hand. The hand came away wet with tears he hadn't even known he was shedding.

"You were screaming in your sleep..." Maes told him uneasily.

Roy bit his lip, tasted blood again, and did not reply.

"Roy, you can talk to me. You know that, right? I just want to help..."

Maes' voice was so sad... So profoundly, terrifyingly weak ("_You murderer, you weakling! You'd better fucking look at me when I'm talking to you!"_). Roy shook his head violently and closed his eyes so tightly that the residual tears were forced to stream down his face. He wiped his cheek with an irrational kind of annoyance and cleared his throat, composing himself. He wasn't in Lior anymore, in that bloody prison... he was in Central, in a hospital, with Maes...

_It's over. It's over. It's over..._

"...Don't want to talk about it." Roy said when he trusted himself to speak again, turning away from his friend.

"Okay... but when you're ready..."

"I know, Maes."

That searing, pained look of anguish crossed Maes' face again and he was silent for a moment before saying, "I told Beal's nurse that you wanted to see him and she'll be wheeling him over in a few minutes... but I can tell him to come back another time, if you want."

"No." Roy said quickly, turning his full attention back to Maes, "No, he can come. I want to see him."

Maes looked doubtful, but didn't say anything.

"I'm okay, really." Roy told him softly, "I just... I had a nightmare and I'm reeling a little. That's all."

Maes nodded, but did not look convinced. It was almost palpable how much he wanted to wrap his arms around Roy as he usually would when either of them was upset. Maes practically shook with the suppressed need to give Roy physical comfort, to hold him and try to heal him the only way that he knew how. It was almost frightening, that paternal need.

Roy looked away from him again uncomfortably, just the thought of being touched making his flesh crawl.

"...You in any pain?" Maes asked tentatively after a brief pause.

Roy thought about the question for a moment before answering. His fingers twinged a bit and his broken leg ached pretty badly. It felt like someone was stabbing him in the ribcage each time he took a breath. The space between his shoulder blades where Jenkins had ground out all of his cigarettes stung and itched. His head was pounding and there were a million other little pains throughout his damaged body, but after all he'd been through in Lior, this dull, healing sort of pain almost felt good.

"I can tolerate it."

The other man smiled sadly, "I know you can, but you don't _have_ to anymore... I'll ask Carol to give you something after you meet with Beal."

"Okay..." Roy agreed uneasily, "But just don't... don't let them sedate me again. I don't like being so groggy. I feel like I can't..."

"Can't what?" Maes asked when Roy trailed off.

_I feel like I can't protect myself. I don't feel safe._

_(You'll never be safe.)_ A voice in the back of his mind reminded him.

_Shut up. _He said to it mentally.

"...Nevermind. Just tell them not to, okay?"

"Okay. You do seem a lot better without all that junk in your system." Maes smiled, "You're eyes are clearer and you're talking more... It's good to see."

For the first time in weeks, Roy allowed himself to smile very faintly. Maes practically beamed to see that small expression of contentment, even if it was only the palest ghost of a smile.

A knock on the door interrupted them and both looked over as a grey-haired nurse poked her head in.

"Lieutenant Beal to see you, sirs."

Roy grabbed the railing of the bed and—with some difficulty that made him give a small, pained gasp—managed to haul himself up into a sitting position. Roy could tell that Maes was itching to help him, but the man seemed very aware of how Roy was loath to be touched at the moment, and the Major restrained himself with little more than a tiny whine of sad frustration. Roy gave him another weak half-smile to prove that he was okay then focused his attention back toward the door.

The nurse opened the door up all the way and moved to push a wheelchair into the room. From his seat in the chair, Beal looked over at Roy and the man's face brightened instantly.

"God, Colonel... I couldn't believe you were really awake until I saw it with my own eyes... but here you are," the sandy-haired man said disbelievingly, then remembered himself and promptly saluted, adding "...sir."

He was saluting with his left hand. It took Roy a moment to remember why. Slowly, Roy's eyes moved down to where Beal's right hand should have been and his stomach turned.

"At ease, Lieutenant." Roy said quietly, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice. Beal complied, lowering his only remaining hand into his lap. The two men examined each other from across the room, each one subconsciously counting and evaluating each wound or sign of wear that they saw on the other's body.

"Ah... I almost forgot; I have some more paperwork to fill out this afternoon." Maes said suddenly, only half-attempting to be subtle, "Nurse Maribel, could you come assist me with that?"

And with that, Maes linked his arm with the—rather amused-looking—nurse and exited the room, pausing only to smile encouragingly down at Beal over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

Alone now, the two men continued to regard one another silently, neither looking as if they had the faintest idea of what to say. Finally, Beal broke the silence by wheeling himself—rather impressively, considering that he only possessed one hand—over to the head of Roy's bed and saying with a lopsided grin:

"You look awful, if you don't mind me saying so, sir."

Roy smirked at him, appreciating the lightness of his tone. "I can't possibly look worse than you."

Beal laughed quietly, looking pleased that Roy was allowing and even participating in his dark playfulness. Roy let his smile falter though as he looked back down at Beal's hand-stump.

"They couldn't save it, then?" he asked his subordinate quietly.

The Lieutenant sighed and raised up his arm, eyeing the bandages wrapped securely around the end of it. "No, but I didn't really expect them to. It was in pretty bad shape by the end... Even if I could have kept it, I probably wouldn't have had much feeling or movement in it."

Roy nodded, remembering vividly the ragged, tangled mess of flesh and bone that Beal's hand had been the last time he'd seen it.

("_Start talking, Colonel. I can do this all day, but I don't think that the same can be said for poor Lieutenant Beal, here. Oops! There went another finger. How clumsy of me...")_

Roy shook himself, trying to banish the image from his head as he felt his pulse begin to quicken with remembered horror, sorrow, and guilt. When he looked up again, Beal was eyeing him warily, a new kind of concern furrowing his brow that had nothing to do with Roy's physical injuries. Understanding that his mind must have wandered for longer than he'd thought, Roy broke eye contact, suddenly uncomfortable.

"...Everyone thought that you were going to lose your leg, too," Beal said at length, trying to cover his sudden unease, "Even the doctors kept telling Major Hughes that amputation was necessary if you didn't start fighting the infection better..."

Roy shrugged noncommittally. Upon reflection, he had expected to lose the leg, too. He could remember laying bound on the floor of the auditorium, wondering with black humor whether or not he was going to live long enough to need automail. That had been some of the worst pain... when his leg had first been broken, (_sledgehammer... CRUNCH... c-can't stop screaming..._) and then the subsequent wrenchings and twistings of the devastated limb... Until this point, Roy hadn't really thought about his leg, other than to vaguely register that it hurt. He looked down at the cast-covered shape of his leg—nothing more than a bulky shape under the blankets—and wondered how bad it was.

Roy looked up again quickly, realizing that he'd maintained his silence for too long again. He couldn't help it... his mind just kept (_murderer_) wandering.

"...Did Lindor make it back?" Roy asked finally, trying to lead the conversation, "I remember he was... pretty bad the night you go out."

Beal's shoulders slumped. "No." he said sadly, "We lost him on the ride back to Central, sir. We were only about an hour from the nearest hospital... but he couldn't hold on that long."

Roy closed his eyes briefly, containing his grief before it could overpower him. "It's probably for the best..." he said expressionlessly, "Even if he'd made it, I don't think he would have ever fully recovered."

"I don't think any of us ever will, sir."

Roy froze, but then chose to pretend that he hadn't heard Beal's last statement and continued, "Major Hughes told me that Jordan was discharged last week."

Beal smiled again softly. "Yeah. He's left the military and is going up north to be with his family soon. Can't say that I blame him. I don't think his mind is quite right anymore after everything that happened..."

As he said that last part, Beal gave Roy an odd, furtive look. Before Roy could work out what was meant by it, though, Beal plowed on:

"I made a bet with him that I'd get released from the hospital before he did... he won, obviously. I owe him a drink."

"Do you know when you're getting out of here?"

"Probably within the next few days. I'm doing fairly well, the doctors say... better than you, at least." Beal stopped and his smile faded away, leaving an expression of sickened guilt in its wake, "...I abandoned you, Colonel." he confessed suddenly, "As your Lieutenant, I was supposed to keep you safe and I didn't. I was supposed to come back for you at the end and rescue you, but when I saw what they'd done to you I gave you up for dead... And... and I know that it probably doesn't mean much to you, but I'm sorry... God, I'm so sorry, sir."

Roy stared at him, taken aback as he slowly absorbed his words.

"You had to take care of the others, Lieutenant."

"Yes, but—"

"It's no one's fault but mine. I failed all of you as a commander. Because of my weakness, lives were lost."

"...What? No, Colonel, it wasn't your fault!" Beal gasped, looking both sad and a little angry. "You did what you had to! None of us ever blamed you for it, not even in the auditorium when..."

Beal stopped himself, closing his eyes for a moment. "...We never blamed you." he finished lamely. Roy looked away from him, wanting to embrace the forgiveness that he'd just been offered, but unable to do so. It _had_ been his fault and he didn't deserve to be forgiven.

"You lost your _hand_ because of me, Beal."

"...Let's not discuss it..." Beal said finally, his voice low and distraught.

Roy swallowed and nodded, his eyes focused out the window. He didn't want to think about it right now, either. There was another long stretch of silence between the two of them, but once again Beal ventured to break it.

"Besides... losing a hand isn't all that bad."

Roy looked at him incredulously. "...Not that _bad_?"

"Yeah, because I've got this spare one that I can use." As if to illustrate his point, Beal smirked and raised up his other hand, wiggling his fingers playfully. "See?"

Roy stared at him expressionlessly for a moment and Beal stared back, still grinning.

"That's not funny." Roy tried to say seriously, even as his face broke into a smile and he had to hold back the sudden urge to laugh, covering his mouth with one hand.

"No, it's really not." Beal sniggered, unable to hold back as gracefully as Roy did.

Then, unexpectedly, both men erupted into an odd, startled bout of laughter. They giggled like madmen, bowing their heads to the sharp pain it inflicted upon their injured ribcages. It really wasn't funny at all, but neither man could stop laughing. It was a hysterical, manic kind of expression that had very little to do with humor. It was cathartic, it was painful, it was terrifying. Tears streamed down their faces and neither of them was completely sure whether they were laughing or crying... and at the moment they truly didn't care. It was all the same. Laughing... crying... it didn't really matter. It was a violent expulsion of emotion either way, one so powerful that Roy could scarcely breathe. His heart raced and the monitors next to his bed beeped warnings, but he ignored them, too absorbed in his own frantic misery to care.

Neither man stopped laughing until a nurse came in and made Beal leave, threatening to sedate Roy if he didn't calm down. Even then they still chuckled a little as they said their goodbyes, each wiping tears from their eyes and wishing that they were dead.


	6. Gloves

**((A/N: this chapter is kinda short... but I think it's really important. I may post two chapters this week to make up for it.))**

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...Major, can I speak to you for a moment?"

Maes turned and looked around at the man limping toward him, setting down the clipboard that he'd just finished signing.

"Beal! Good to see you up and about." Maes smiled, clapping the man's shoulder, "I hear you're getting discharged tomorrow."

Beal smiled back faintly, "Yes, sir. 'Bout time, too... it'll be nice to go back home."

"I bet. So, what did you need to talk about?"

Beal hesitated for a moment, then looked over his shoulder as if afraid that someone might be listening in. "It's about the Colonel..."

Maes raised his eyebrows, "What about him?"

"Well..." Beal began, looking very uncomfortable and perhaps even a little frightened, "Doesn't he seem a little... _off_ to you?"

"Well, yes. Of course he's a little off." Maes said, feeling a little defensive on Roy's behalf, "I mean, my god, you of all people should know... after everything that happened to him, he's bound to be a bit unstable for a while. He just needs some time to work things out."

Even as he said the words, though, there was doubt nagging at the back of Maes' mind. It had been four days now since Roy's episode with Ed and, though he had not had any hallucinations since, he was still not quite himself. But of course, who could expect him to be himself again so soon? He was plagued by near-constant nightmares... he was shaken and in pain and depressed... of course he was going to be on edge... it was completely normal...

Right?

"I know, Major, it's just... I think it's more than that. The way he looks at me sometimes... his phobia of being touched... sometimes his mind wanders for so long that I'm half afraid that he's gone catatonic again." Beal paused for a moment, looking distressed, "A lot of things happened to him back in Lior. Some really awful... terrible things that I don't think he will ever be able to talk about openly... even to you. Things that I know without a doubt would have driven me insane if our places had been switched."

"He's not insane!" Maes said, his stomach turning with cold fear to hear such words coming from Beal's mouth.

"I didn't say he was," Beal defended softly, holding up his hand to show that he meant no disrespect, "But he isn't right, either. There is something psychologically wrong with him. You see it just as clearly as I do. He needs mental help."

"Bullshit, he's fine. He's still healing, what do you expect?" The Major mumbled angrily, looking away from the Lieutenant and stalking past him down the hallway to Roy's room.

"Just think about it, Major..." Beal called after him quietly, sounding unspeakably sad.

Maes pretended not to hear him and plastered a false smile on his face as he stepped into Roy's hospital room.

"Good morning, Roy!" he greeted with an enthusiasm that he didn't feel.

Startled by his entrance, Roy flinched. He recovered himself quickly, but not quickly enough to keep Maes from seeing the brief flash of terror cross his face, followed immediately by a flicker of embarrassed frustration. As he did every morning, Maes ignored his flinch and pretended not to see his sick emotion. It was an awkward, painful sort of routine that they danced every day: Roy would flinch or wake up from another nightmare in hysterics and Maes would dutifully pretend that it wasn't tearing him apart inside each time he saw his best friend's internal suffering.

"How are you doing today?"

Roy shrugged one shoulder. This was another part of the dance; in the four days since Roy had awoken, he'd never once given a straight answer to that question. Maes sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, fishing in his pocket.

"Here," Maes said, handing over the folded set of alchemy gloves that Roy had been asking about for the past few days, "I finally found your extra pair. I had to ransack your closet to find them; hope you don't mind."

Roy froze and stared down at the offered gloves, his face paling ever so slightly. With a soft moan, Roy snatched the gloves from Maes' hand and pressed them to his face, his eyes closed tightly.

"My god..." Roy breathed, sounding dangerously close to tears as he inhaled the sulphurous, flinty smell of the ignition cloth, "What I wouldn't have given to have had these a month ago. My gloves were the first thing they took from me... even before they took my gun."

Maes watched him uneasily, unsure of whether or not this was a good reaction. Roy had been asking for his gloves off and on for days, but after a particularly bad nightmare yesterday he was absolutely adamant about having them. Maes figured that having the gloves would make Roy feel safer and more secure, but he hadn't expected the raw sort of need that the injured Colonel was displaying now... he reminded Maes of a drug-addict getting his long-awaited fix after days of withdrawal.

"Do you want to talk about it...?" Maes asked, but knew before Roy said anything what his automatic answer would be.

"No."

Roy had not really said much about his ordeal to Maes or anyone else for that matter. It seemed that his most frequently uttered phrases were "I don't want to talk about it" and "don't touch me". Maes was perpetually offering his ear and his shoulder to Roy, but the injured Colonel would refuse both and then either get upset or ignore him completely.

Roy had never been especially talkative, but the silences he'd taken to holding were a little unnerving. Even when his staff had come in to visit him the day before he didn't talk a whole lot. It was almost as if he honestly didn't know what to say. They'd tried getting him to join them in conversation but he'd just looked down at his hands awkwardly, clearly wishing that they would leave. Maes took the hint and furtively ushered them out after a while. Hawkeye, Maes noted, looked deeply disturbed by the whole experience... and Havoc had actually left the room at one point during the visit to stand out in the hallway because he didn't want his superior to see him cry.

When asked about it later, Roy refused to say anything.

Maes felt very strongly that Roy needed to talk to someone about what had happened; it didn't even need to be Maes necessarily. It didn't happen often, but a few times Roy had subconsciously let things slip about his imprisonment. The day before yesterday, Maes had been trying to get Roy to eat something, since they hadn't been able to talk him into swallowing anything except water since he'd woken up. When Roy refused to eat the beef stew he'd been offered, Maes asked him why.

"I won't eat meat." Roy had said, his eyes haunted and downcast.

"...Why not?"

"They fed Private Brannon to us. He'd been killed earlier that day and I watched them... I watched them drag him to a corner where the other men couldn't see and they cut him up. They gave my men the meat... they hadn't eaten in over a week and I didn't have the heart to tell them what it was..." Roy had looked up at Maes then, suddenly desperate to make him understand, "When I refused it they... they forced me... I threw it up, but my men were _starving_, Maes... I couldn't tell them what it was... Please, Maes, don't tell Beal."

Maes had been shocked into silence, staring at Roy in open horror and revulsion. Roy must have suddenly realized what he had been saying, for he'd turned away again quickly, looking deeply embarrassed and sickened by his own words.

"I don't want to talk about it." Roy had rasped harshly, his eyes focusing blearily out the window. "Just get the fucking stew away from me."

There had been a few other outbursts of that nature since and Maes saw Roy's mindless expulsions of remembered terror as a sign that he needed to let it all out. It was leaking from him slowly like fluid draining from an infected wound... what he needed to do was tear the wound open again and purge all the festering pus at once, as painful as it might be to do.

Maes sighed and clenched his jaw. Maybe he just needed more time.

Roy held the gloves to his lips for a moment longer, then looked down at his hands as if he were about to slide the gloves on. But then he paused, realizing that the splints on his broken fingers were far too bulky to fit into the narrow glove. An expression of sudden panic crossed Roy's face, but he quelled it quickly and settled for just slipping his thumb and middle finger into the material.

Before the thought of potential danger had even entered Maes' mind, Roy snapped his fingers. A searing jet of light shot forward like a red-orange lightening bolt and struck the foot of the bed, setting it ablaze instantly. Maes jumped up with a startled yelp, but Roy sat still as a statue, watching the flames dance and consume their way toward him with an expression of dreamy placidity.

Maes grabbed a corner of the hospital blanket and tossed it over the small fire, pressing down on the fabric to smother the ravenous flames. A charred corner of the blanket burned the palm of Maes' hand and he jerked it away with a hiss, but then reached forward again to pat the blackened, smoking material and make sure that the fire was out.

"What the _hell_, Roy?!" Maes shouted, turning to him, "Why did you do that?"

Roy stared up at him, his eyes huge with shock as if he didn't quite understand what had just happened.

"I... I-I don't know," he stammered finally, looking a little lost and more than a little frightened. "I just needed to. I'm sorry..."

Maes looked down at his friend, his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Beal's words suddenly came back to him, filling him with a horrified kind of sadness... No. No, Roy wasn't crazy. He was strained and ill and in constant pain even with the drugs... and those mind-altering painkillers couldn't be helping matters... but he was okay... Beal didn't know what he was talking about...

...But if Maes was really so convinced that Beal was wrong... why did it hurt so badly to see Roy acting like this...?

"It's okay, Roy..." Maes rasped, trying to speak past the sudden mournful tightness in his throat, "I didn't mean to yell, but you could have hurt yourself. Maybe I should take the gloves back..."

"No!" Roy said immediately, his voice hitched with panic, "No, let me keep them. Please, Maes. I wont do it again..."

God, he sounded just like a child... Maes opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. His vision blurred and he had to blink back his sudden emotion quickly before Roy noticed it.

"Okay, okay... you can keep them, Roy," he conceded thickly, turning his head away so that he could furtively wipe his eyes. Roy relaxed a little and pressed the gloves to his mouth again, his face drawn and disturbed.

There was a long, tense silence between them. The still-smoldering blankets sent lazy pillars of smoke up toward the ceiling and clouded the silent space between the two men with a caustic grey haze that burned their throats. When Roy finally spoke again his voice was low and hoarse, muffled slightly by the gloves:

"I want out of this fucking hospital, Maes... I think it's doing things to my head."

Maes nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. So Roy was aware of how unbalanced he was... that was good, right? Wasn't there a saying that stated that the truly insane didn't _know_ that they were insane? If Roy recognized and even felt embarrassment and horror over his displays of mental instability, didn't that mean that he was not really that far gone? Maybe it was just being in the hospital that was warping Roy's mind... once he got out, he'd probably be fine...

"I'm going to go get Carol to switch out the sheets for you," Maes said lamely after a few beats, gesturing vaguely at the smoking wad of cloth at the foot of Roy's bed, "I'll be right back."

The shaken Major turned to leave the room, suddenly wanting to get some distance from Roy, even if just for a few moments.

"...Maes?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Maes asked uncomfortably, pausing in the doorway to look back at him over his shoulder.

Roy didn't say anything for a moment, but his eyes were so disturbingly intense that Maes' heart shuddered... but then Roy shook his head and looked back down at the ruined sheets.

"...It's nothing. Nevermind."

Maes paused for several beats and considered staying with him, but then turned and walked out the door without another word. He was clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt and the slight blur in his eyes from before had returned with a vengeance, almost completely obscuring his vision with tears as he stalked down the hallway. Stumbling forward blindly with his heart heavy and his mind torn, Maes nearly plowed into Beal before he even realized that the man had approached him.

"Major...?" Beal asked, his voice tight with concern, "What's wrong?"

Maes stopped and wiped his eyes, shaking his head, "You're right. God, Beal... I guess I've known for a while, but... _fuck_, I couldn't accept it until I heard you say those things..." The overcome Major trailed off and took a deep breath, "Even the way he looked at me when I was leaving the room just now... there was _madness_ there, Beal. He's not right..."

"...I'm so sorry, Major..." Beal whispered sincerely, reaching forward to grip Maes' shoulder tightly.

"And he won't even talk to me!" Maes lamented, covering his face with one hand, "How am I supposed to help him if he wont let me in? If he would just tell me what's going on in his head then maybe I could make it better somehow..."

Beal sighed and squeezed Maes' shoulder even more tightly. "If you really want to know... if you think that knowing will help you get through to him... I'll tell you everything that happened in Lior," he said hesitantly, tilting his head to the side and boring into Maes with his dust-brown eyes.

Maes looked up at him. The Major knew that most of the surviving soldiers had, thus far, refused to say much in regards to their ordeal in Lior and Beal had been especially silent. The fact that he was willing to divulge his nightmares to Maes for the sake of Roy's sanity was overwhelmingly touching.

"Tell me everything," Maes rasped.


	7. So Much Blood

Beal reclined on his hospital bed and Maes sat near him in one of the hospital's stiff wooden chairs, mentally bracing himself for what he was about to hear.

Maes knew that Beal was already half-regretting his offer to tell him all that had happened in Lior but... god,_ someone _had to say it. As of yet, the higher-ups in the military had not asked much about what had happened, but Maes knew that a full report would be needed soon and that both Beal and the Colonel were the most likely candidates to have to give it.

To be honest, though, Beal made it clear that he didn't think he'd have much to say to the Fuhrer and his Brass other than, "you fucked up and I hope you burn in hell for it."

"There was no reason for us to be sent in so unprepared and outnumbered... it was a mistake, but the higher-ups won't admit it." Beal began, his tone already unspeakably dark, "We knew immediately after getting there that we needed reinforcements and the Colonel requested them daily... but they never came. The Colonel pretended that everything was fine, never showing any sort of doubt in front of the men, but he knew. He knew that we were going to fail, but he never let it show. We pressed forward and tried our damnedest to do what we'd been sent in to do.

"We did okay for the first week or so. Some of the people surrendered, probably thinking that we were just the first wave of soldiers coming in after General Hakuro's army migrated north, but after a while the people of Lior started to realize that we were alone and ill equipped to suppress them. A man named Jenkins rallied his people against us... and that was when things went south.

"We lost fifteen people in one day and ten more were captured. The Colonel made one last attempt at getting reinforcements, but they refused him. So, understanding that we'd already lost, the Colonel gathered his remaining men and told us to escape if we could. Then he turned and walked straight toward the enemy, his shoulders back and his head held high as he negotiated the terms of his own surrender.

"After hours of debating, Mustang only managed to secure the freedom of those ten who had been captured days before... in spite of promises, though, only six of them really made it out—I don't think the Colonel knows that, but I didn't want to tell him... Some of us escaped into hiding within the city; the city's boarders were locked down to keep us from leaving, but Lior is a big place with plenty of old buildings to hide in. I'm sure you know that from the rescue mission. Most of the surviving troops were hidden in the city, right under Jenkins' nose... but we were powerless to do anything other than wait.

"After a few days, though, I couldn't take it anymore. As the next ranking officer, the Colonel had left me in command and I gathered volunteers to attack the auditorium where they were keeping him. Of the thirty or so men remaining, only twelve of them wanted to come. I guess I can't blame them... most of them were barely in their twenties, the most inexperienced soldiers I've ever had to work with... and they were terrified. Besides, it would have been easier for just the thirteen of us to sneak in rather than all thirty anyway.

"We made it in without too much difficulty and actually managed to kill a good number of the people holding the Colonel... but it wasn't enough. Our army of thirteen was cut down to eight and we were captured alongside our commander.

"Colonel Mustang was _pissed_ when he found out what we'd done. He had already been beaten pretty badly by those fuckers, but he still had the energy to tell us all how stupid we were for trying to save him. I've never seen him so angry... arms tied above his head, blood streaming from his mouth, and eyes _blazing_ as he shouted at us... At the time, I think my men and I were more afraid of him than our captors..."

Beal trailed off and smiled bitterly. Maes nodded sympathetically; Roy could be very scary when he was angry.

"The other men and I," Beal continued after a moment, "were shackled against the far wall of the auditorium, so we couldn't always see the Colonel or what was being done to him. We could hear it, though—the acoustics in that fucking place were amazing—and I can tell you that he never once begged for his life or asked them to stop... although, a few times he did ask them to hit harder, saying that he felt sorry for them. Even when he was bleeding heavily and barely conscious he egged them on, mocking them and acting as if he was the one who was in control of the situation. In the beginning, he made it seem as if he was completely unbothered by the torture... even when he was crying out in agony he was still cracking jokes at Jenkins' expense and critiquing the man's torturing techniques.

"After the first couple of weeks, though, all of us could see that the Colonel was losing spirit. He was in constant pain, deprived of food and sleep, and got the tar beaten out of him around the clock... but even then he never cracked. He never gave them any of the information that they asked for, no matter how much they hurt him. It was then that Jenkins started getting more... _creative_ with his interrogations.

"Jenkins started playing mind games with the Colonel... he'd ask a question and give Mustang a choice between answering it or sentencing one of his own men to death. Little Private Zane was the first to go... and it hurt the Colonel... god, it hurt him so much. I could see in his eyes how much he hated himself for letting Jenkins blow the kid's brains out... but he knew it was the right decision. None of us ever blamed him for it when they killed us... even Private Hurst told him what an honor it had been to follow him just before the Colonel allowed Jenkins to shoot him... but watching his men die was what finally started to break Mustang down... and Jenkins knew it.

"Jenkins told him that he was a murderer, a sinner for letting his own men die... telling him that keeping his mouth shut instead of saving his allies was disgraceful and unforgivable... and I think Mustang believed him. I think he still does.

"As I said, he never begged for his own life... but he begged daily for ours. They had found his weakness and they knew that, using us, they could eventually break him. Jenkins and his cronies killed a few of us, but once they realized that torturing us was a more effective way of torturing the Colonel, they started doing that instead..."

Beal looked down at the bandaged stump where his had used to be and gave a bitter little laugh. "After they ruined my hand and left us alone for the night, the Colonel kept apologizing to me over and over and over again... I remember that they had beaten him pretty hard that day—in fact, I think that's the day they broke his leg. He had screamed for hours after they did it, yet still he found the strength to keep telling me how sorry he was that he had allowed me to lose a few fingers. He was pretty out of it by that point and I doubt he even remembers it... but that was when I realized that I would follow him forever. To the ends of the earth, even down into Hell itself if that's where he was going. He will always be my commander."

Maes smiled at him warmly, empathizing with the fierce, brotherly love that Beal felt for Roy. But then Beal's face darkened again and he tore his eyes away from his missing hand to look back up at Maes, his gaze powerful.

"The Colonel started deteriorating quickly after that... he spent most of his time inside his own mind, reciting those damned elements while they tortured him, but I could tell that he was going downhill fast. During all this time in the auditorium, the Colonel hardly ever struggled or attacked our captors physically, choosing to use his sharp tongue rather than his waning strength... but one day toward the end he just... _snapped_. Jenkins was leaning close to him—taunting him and demanding that he give information, like always—but then the Colonel lurched forward and..."

"And what?" Maes prompted, unsettled by the disturbed, yet darkly amused expression that crawled across Beal's face.

"He bit him. Hard. I mean, he was latched on to Jenkins' face like fucking a bulldog. It took three men to get Mustang off of him and by then the Colonel had already torn out a sizeable chunk of the guy's face. Parts of Jenkins' nose and upper lip were bitten off... I'm sure you've seen his mug shot in the papers..."

True, Maes had seen the arrest photos of Dahveed Jenkins in the newspapers and had wondered faintly what had given him such horrible facial wounds... and now, knowing that it had been Roy in a fit of rage, Maes' heart celebrated a sick kind of satisfaction.

"Good job, Roy." Maes murmured, impressed. 

"The best part was when the Colonel spit the ragged chunks of flesh back in Jenkins' face and told him to go fuck himself. One of our men actually laughed out loud... but then Jenkins whipped around and shot him immediately. Only Lindor, Jordan, and I were left then."

Beal sighed suddenly and leaned back in the hospital bed, the bleached-white linens whispering as he shifted. "As satisfying as it was for him to do that, though... to see him fight back and actually make an unforgettable impression on that bastard... I think everyone wishes that he hadn't done it."

"Why?" Maes asked incredulously, "That monster deserved it and more."

Beal looked down at his ex-hand again, all traces of his grim humor gone. "He really made Jenkins mad. If the Colonel hadn't bitten him, I don't think that Jenkins ever would have gone as far as he did... After Jenkins bandaged his face and got most of the bleeding to stop, he came back and kicked the Colonel's broken leg. Mustang screamed, his voice muffled by a gag that someone had shoved into his mouth to keep him from biting again. Jenkins reached down and grabbed a fistful of Mustang's hair, wrenching his head back and leaning in close to say, 'You like to play rough? Then let's play rough.'"

Beal stopped again, looking suddenly very uncomfortable.

"I don't think I should be telling you this..." he said finally, his voice soft and deeply disturbed.

Maes leaned forward slightly in his chair and pressed his lips pensively against his clenched fist, choosing his words carefully. He knew where this part of the story was going and his insides churned to even have to think about it.

"The doctor told me that Roy had been... raped... pretty violently..." Maes said quietly.

Beal stared at him for a moment then looked away again. "There is no word for what they did to him. I think that Jenkins had given up on getting any information out of the Colonel by this time and now he just wanted him to suffer. He knocked Mustang to the ground and... did things to him. The Colonel struggled hard, cursing and screaming from behind his gag. At first I think he just could not believe what was happening... but then the pain and the humiliation of knowing that his men were watching must have gotten to him, because his face went completely blank and I could hear him listing elements again, going back into his desperate trance as he was torn and ravaged.

"When Jenkins was done, he passed him over to one of his other men and then he... he did it, too... and then that guy passed him on to someone else... Those bastards just took turns with him, violating him brutally over and over again until the Colonel finally passed out from pain and blood loss... I mean, you hear about these things sometimes, but until you see it for yourself... it was so violent... so much blood..."

The Lieutenant's voice broke and he reached up quickly to wipe the grief and horror from his eyes. He had been admirably stoic up until this point in his gruesome narrative, but now he was clearly struggling to keep his composure.

"It probably would have been better for Mustang if he hadn't fought back so hard when it started," Beal choked after a few moments, "but as it was... it was bad. It was really, really bad. He was bleeding so much... I thought they'd killed him. They tossed him aside into a corner and just left him there when they were done with him. He didn't move, he didn't make any sound, and a puddle of blood was widening around him rapidly... and there was _n-nothing_ that we could do for him. A big part of me wished that he _would_ just bleed to death, because anything was better than him having to go through that again...

"But he _did_ go through it again. He went though it every day... sometimes more than once. There was no limit to Jenkins' cruelty. This went on for over a week, and by the end the Colonel... god, he was just so broken, Major... you have no idea... He wouldn't even look at us anymore. He'd just lay there and list elements from behind his gag, sometimes for hours at a time. He seemed so far gone that Jenkins didn't even bother tying him to the chair anymore, just left him on the floor with only his hands bound. It wasn't as if he was going to get up and walk away... Jenkins and his men got so confident that they stopped guarding us all the time and we actually got some time alone with each other when we could speak freely without being overheard.

"After one particularly bad round of violation with Jenkins' men, they left us alone. They had used... used empty alcohol bottles on the Colonel at one point, then had broken one and shoved his face in the glass. He was still lying next to the glass, but after they left he raised his head and looked at us for the first time in days. He didn't say anything because of the gag, but his eyes suddenly lit up in a startling contrast to the dark lines of blood streaming down his face. At first we thought he'd gone completely nuts, because he rolled over so that his face was in the glass again and started trying to pick up a shard with his teeth. It was hard because of the gag, but he finally managed to snag a piece through the cloth.

"As we watched, Mustang dragged himself over to us inch by inch... it was only a distance of perhaps five yards, but it might as well have been miles. To make it worse, he kept dropping the glass and had to stop to pick it up again every few moments. By the time he finally got to us he was completely exhausted and practically gagging on his agony, but his eyes were still bright and animated.

"With some painful difficulty that made him pant and keen a little, Mustang pushed himself upright and leaned against the wall next to me. With the glass still clenched firmly in his teeth, he started etching symbols into the wall. Almost immediately I knew what he was doing and my heart leapt. It was alchemy. Jenkins and his men had gotten too cocky and had left the Colonel mostly unfettered and with tools for creating a circle... it was as if the Colonel had just been waiting for this moment; he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, as if he had planned this out long ago.

"It took him forever, but when he finally finished drawing he pressed his forehead to the circle and it glowed briefly white. The wall behind me gave way and I almost toppled backward into the hole. Our chains—which had been attached to the wall—seemed to dissolve where they met the stone, freeing us. Jordan laughed. Lindor gave a weak little smile, already pretty out of it from some bad injuries he'd sustained a few days before. I leaned forward and pulled the gag out of the Colonel's mouth.

"'Get out of here,' he rasped, his voice still raw from screaming.

"'Yes, sir!' I said quickly, moving to pick him up. But he jerked away from me, saying:

"'Leave me. You and Jordan just take Lindor and go.'

"I started to argue with him, but a noise on the other side of the room alerted us to the fact that our captors were returning. Frantically, Mustang told us to leave again, fear evident in his voice. He said that he had to close up the hole in the wall again after we left, otherwise Jenkins could follow us... and if we didn't leave now, he wouldn't have time to close it before we were discovered. Knowing he was right, Jordan and I carried Lindor into the wall—which we could now see opened up into the night sky—and I told him that we'd come back for him... no matter what."

Maes reached forward and gripped Beal's arm warmly, clearly sensing his guilty thoughts. Beal favored him with a watery smile and pressed on.

"The Colonel closed the hole swiftly behind us. Just in time, too, because we could hear the men talking urgently inside, moving closer to Mustang. We stayed perfectly still in our hiding place, terrified that they would hear us if we moved. In his rush to close the hole, Mustang had overlooked a crack in the stone and I looked through it, trying to see what was going on.

"Jenkins and his men were all very agitated, shouting at each other about something. As we listened, we slowly started to realize that they were worried, talking about an approaching army..."

Beal's smile strengthened a little as he looked up at Maes, a sudden fierce gratitude radiating from him in waves and making him look ten years younger.

"Jenkins' scouts had seen your rescue team and Brigadier General Shanks' army. They were screwed and they knew it. They barked and argued amongst themselves, talking about fleeing the city or just surrendering outright... but Mustang interrupted them.

"He was_ laughing_.

"He was laughing so hard that he choked on his own blood, but he still didn't stop. It was a piercing, haunting, completely unnatural sound... and to hear it coming from Mustang... it was indescribably frightening. Even Jenkins' men looked unsettled by it. And then... then they realized that Jordan, Lindor, and I were gone...

"Jenkins picked up the Colonel by his neck and slammed him against the wall, demanding to know where we were.

"Mustang just kept laughing, even with Jenkins' hand crushing his throat and he said, 'You're dead... you're already dead, you bastard...' Mustang told him that the two Privates and I had most likely already met up with the reinforcements and were even now telling them where to find Jenkins and his followers. Even then, Mustang was an incredible manipulator. He saw the fear in Jenkins' eyes and rejoiced in it, exploiting it and cackling when he saw it intensify. I'm sure the Colonel knew that we were still listening, stock-still on the other side of the wall, but we could tell that Jenkins fully believed in his lie.

"The horror on that fucker's face was intensely rewarding. He knew that even if he killed Mustang now, he had lost...

"Terrified and enraged, Jenkins threw the Colonel down and just... went at him. We couldn't really see the Colonel through the crack, but we could hear... Mustang was still laughing, but he was screaming at the same time... gasping and cursing until they shoved the gag in his mouth again. I saw Mustang's blood fly up and splatter Jenkins' face, coating his ruined lips with red... and I just had to turn away. I couldn't watch anymore. I knew that if Jordan and I didn't carry Lindor away right then that I was going to storm back in there and try to save Mustang again...

"So I turned my back on him and we left, pretending that we couldn't hear what they were doing to him. We hid in one of the abandoned buildings and waited for your company to arrive, Major... and you know the rest. Jordan and I did go back for him after Jenkins and the rest of his men had fled... but he was just so gone... I didn't think he even had a chance and... and Jordan was hysterical and Lindor was fading fast... there's nothing I could have done for him..."

Beal broke off, trying to swallow back his deep-seated guilty anguish.

"You were following orders, Beal." Maes said kindly, fighting valiantly against the grief tearing at his own insides, "I'm sure he doesn't blame you..."

"I know he doesn't... but that doesn't make it right."

Maes chewed his lip and allowed a silence to permeate the room, sharing with Beal in the sad, helpless feelings that had been unearthed by his narrative. The two men did not speak again for a few beats, but then Beal shook his head,

"There's probably a lot more that I don't know. Like I said, we couldn't always see him... but he never said anything. I hope everyone knows that. He never once let anything slip. Not about the country, not about the Fuhrer... not even about this kid that they kept talking about... it must have been code for something."

Maes cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, "They were probably talking about Edward Elric."

"The Fullmetal Alchemist? Why was he so badly wanted in Lior?"

"It's a long story," Maes sighed at length, "Did they question Roy about him a lot?"

Beal nodded slowly, "All the time. More than anything else. That kid had better be grateful, after all that the Colonel went through to keep him out of Jenkins' hands."

Maes nodded and allowed himself to feel a stab of anger toward Edward. Ed had not yet come to visit Roy--not since he was fully awake anyway. Roy had asked about the kid's wellbeing nearly every day since he'd woken up, still half-convinced that Edward was dead... and Ed didn't even have the decency to call?

The Major swallowed back his ire. He and Ed were going to need to have a long talk soon. Maes shook himself and turned his attention back to the Lieutenant.

"Thank you, Beal..." Maes said finally, getting to his feet. He had tried to listen to the story as if it were just another report from a subordinate... but it was still a lot to absorb at one. He coldly filed away all of the information that he had just gleaned into the back of his mind so that he could think about the horrors of it later and straightened, offering his left hand for Beal to shake. Beal hesitated for only a moment before clasping Maes' hand warmly.

They said their goodbyes—both of them suddenly very professional, each pretending valiantly that they were not on the verge of tears—and parted ways.


	8. Just A Thought

He hated the wheelchair.

He absolutely, positively _hated_ it.

"Oh, cheer up, Roy." Maes said happily, striding next to Carol, who was wheeling the Colonel out of the hospital's front doors. He was the most buoyant that Roy had seen him since he'd left for Lior. "It's hospital rules to have you wheeled out to the car rather than letting you walk, you know that. Besides, after today you'll never have to use it again."

Roy sighed irritatedly. As if he didn't feel weak and useless already... now they wouldn't even let him walk out to the car. True, he was still highly unstable on his crutches... but, Great Void, he could at least hobble out to the parking lot under his own power.

Still, it was hard to be completely annoyed, given the circumstances. He'd almost cried with relief and gratitude when Maes told him that he'd pulled a few strings so that Roy could get released a few days early. He'd been in the hospital for far too long. The white rooms and corridors made him feel as if he was being slowly suffocated. Now, being outside for the first time—while conscious, at least—since his capture in Lior, he could breathe again. He silently delighted in the brisk wind that cut through the trees surrounding the hospital, the sharpness of it dulled by the mild afternoon sun. The world was full of color and the leaves on the sweetgum trees were beginning to turn vibrant shades of gold and blood red as summer gasped its last few breaths.

"When the hell did it become autumn?" Roy mused quietly as he looked at the leaves. It had still been high summer when he'd left Central.

"...'Bout a month ago." Maes replied, glancing sidelong at his friend.

Roy shook his head. It was hard to believe that he'd really been gone that long... yet it felt like he'd been absent for years. Everything was strange to him. Even the lumpy hospital mattress had seemed like extreme decadence after the blood-sticky floor of the auditorium, so soft by comparison that he honestly thought he would have been more comfortable spreading out on the cold tiles of his hospital room's floor.

But he couldn't do that, of course. Maes would have had a fit.

Maes had been watching Roy very closely lately, scarcely leaving his side. He'd been doing this since Roy had woken up, but he'd become especially clingy and vigilant since that day last week when Roy set the bed on fire. Not that Roy could really blame him... frankly, Roy was half-glad that someone was watching him to make sure he didn't do it again. He really hadn't meant to use his alchemy like that; it had just sort of... happened. He knew that he had scared Maes pretty badly, but it was nothing compared to the confused fear that had settled itself in Roy's own chest...

He didn't even remember snapping his fingers...

Still, Roy did feel much better now that he had his gloves again. He'd finally gotten the splints off of his fingers a few days ago and he'd been wearing his gloves nearly every moment since, even when he was sleeping.

"Hey," Maes intoned quietly as they approached the car, "knock it off."

Roy gave an irritated sigh and looked down at his hands. He was doing it again. Over the past few days, Roy had developed a nervous habit of rubbing his gloved thumb and middle finger together, creating a tiny shower of harmless sparks. Most of the time, Roy didn't even realize that he was doing it. Maes was always nagging him to stop, but Roy couldn't help it. It was a subconscious tick, a little obsessive-compulsive manifestation. Roy _wanted_ to stop—for the rough cloth was actually rubbing his fingers raw and starting to make them bleed—but he couldn't. He'd stop for a while, but the moment he let his mind wander from it he started up again until Maes reminded him.

Oh well. It was only one of the many discomforts that he was going to have to work past. At least he'd stopped biting his lip...

Carol stopped the wheelchair beside the car and Maes moved to open the door to the back seat. Roy looked at the awaiting seat doubtfully, frustratedly unsure of whether or not he'd be able to lift himself out of the wheelchair and get in the car by himself. Maes must have seen his hesitation, for he took a step closer and offered his arm for leverage. Maes did not, however, make any move to grab Roy to help him. He wanted Roy to make the decision of whether or not he was going to be touched, even though he clearly wasn't going to be able to get into the car _without_ said contact...

Still, it was heartening that Maes was so understanding of Roy's—admittedly irrational—phobia.

Roy hesitated only a moment, then reached up and gripped Maes' arm, pulling himself upright to stand unsteadily on his unbroken leg. Maes favored him with a beaming, relieved-looking smile, clearly pleased that Roy was tolerating his touch. Roy avoided his eyes, still very uncomfortable with the contact but not wanting to show it. With Maes' support, Roy slid into the backseat of the car and took his crutches from Carol, wincing as he bumped his leg against the back of the seat in front of him.

"Thanks so much, Carol." Maes said, turning and embracing her warmly, "You've been so great through all this."

Carol smiled and returned the embrace. "I'm just glad that our Colonel here is recovering so well. He'll be back at work and on his feet again in no time!" She tipped Roy a friendly wink and he smiled at her very softly—as always, unsure of what to say.

Maes and Carol said some fond goodbyes, each promising to write as Maes got into the driver's seat and started the car. Roy closed his door and sat back, closing his eyes and reveling in the thought that he would be back in his own place soon.

"Glad to be going home I gather?" Maes asked as he drove out of the parking lot. Roy looked up and met Maes' happy, twinkling eyes in the rearview mirror.

"You have no idea, Maes," Roy smirked back, then shifted a bit so that his leg wasn't pressed so uncomfortably against the seat.

"We should celebrate. I'm sure Gracia wouldn't mind playing hostess if we invited a few people over for drinks or something."

Roy's insides squirmed a little at the thought. Maes would no doubt invite all of Roy's staff, which was fine... but being in such closed quarters with so many people... all of them looking at him with fake smiles plastered over their concerned faces...

He didn't think he was quite ready to deal with that eventuality. It had been bad enough when they'd come to see him earlier in the week, each of them trying desperately to pretend that everything was okay. He didn't want to see them again so soon. He didn't want _them_ to see _him_ again so soon.

"Or we don't have to..." Maes amended, watching Roy through the rearview mirror. Roy cursed inwardly, then quickly made his expression blank. Maes had always been very good at reading Roy's emotions and had probably seen his troubled thoughts all over his unguarded face.

"Whatever," Roy mumbled noncommittally, averting his gaze to look out the window.

Maes sighed quietly from the front seat, still watching his friend in the mirror. Roy pretended not to notice Maes' concerned eyes boring into him and instead focused on the colorful blur of trees as they sped past.

"...I wish you would just talk to me, Roy," Maes said quietly.

Roy closed his eyes.

"There's nothing to talk about," Roy said flatly. He really did not want to get into this again.

"I'm your _friend_, Roy! I want you to know that I'm here for you, but you keep pushing me away."

"I don't want to talk about it!" Roy hissed, starting to get irritated. "What part of that do you not understand?"

"Why don't you want to talk about it?" Maes asked sincerely, keeping his words low and placating.

Roy sighed harshly and massaged his temple with one gloved hand. "...There are some things that we, as men, should not discuss," he mumbled finally, his voice quieter and more haunted than he had intended it to be.

For a few beats Maes maintained the silence that flooded into the car on the heels of Roy's soft words, but then he rasped, "There is nothing that you could ever tell me that would make me think any less of you, my brother."

Roy clenched his jaw against the sudden mournful tightness in his throat and looked out the window again without replying. Maes continued to watch him as he drove, his green eyes pensive and lamenting.

"...I already know that you were sexually assaulted, if that's what you're worried about telling me." Maes whispered hesitantly after a moment, his voice indescribably pained.

Roy froze, eyes wide as he slowly turned to look at his friend. The weight of Maes' sudden confession (_you whore_) forced the air from the Colonel's lungs with a desperate, keening sort of violence. Nausea and terror and humiliation inundated him, coating his insides with a painful, brittle layer of icy self-revulsion.

"...How did you find out?" Roy managed to ask quietly when he trusted himself to speak without vomiting.

Maes didn't answer for a moment, but then he slumped a little in the driver's seat and returned his eyes to the road. "Your doctor. When he was telling me about all your injuries, he... mentioned some things. We could only assume..."

"Does... does anyone else know?"

"Hawkeye was with me when I spoke with the doctor."

Roy closed his eyes tightly and leaned his head back against the seat, the urge to scream (_Scream for me, Colonel! Yes, SCREAM for me!_) overwhelming his senses. He felt the hot prickling of shamed tears forming beneath his eyelids and he covered his eyes with one hand, refusing to give in to his horror and disgrace.

"...I'm so sorry, Roy..." Maes whispered, not for the first time, "God, man, I'm so sorry."

Roy gave no reply, opting instead to wipe his eyes and clench his jaw as he turned his head to look out the window again. His hand twitched spastically and he rubbed his thumb hard against his middle finger, finding a sick kind of solace in the pain of his raw, damaged fingertips. He only vaguely realized that he was doing it.

"Maybe..." Maes continued thickly, "maybe it would help if you talked about it, that's all I'm saying. You don't even need to talk to _me_, if you really don't want to. You can talk to a—"

"A what?" Roy interrupted icily, his shame quickly morphing into anger, "A _therapist_? Is that what you were going to say?"

"...It was just a thought."

"I don't want to talk to _anyone_, Maes! I don't want to even think about it! Why can't you just leave it alone and let me forget about what happened for a little while?"

Maes sighed again softly and turned the car down a side street without answering.

"I don't need a therapist," Roy continued petulantly, "I'm fine."

"There's nothing wrong with therapy. A lot of the survivors are in therapy for post-traumatic issues... even Private Jordan is seeing a therapist."

"Yes, well, from what I hear Jordan went a little crazy after what happened... He_ needs_ therapy."

Maes looked as if he was about to say something, but then decided against it. The Major kept his eyes firmly on the road, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.

A dark, cold swell of fear and uncertainty filled Roy's chest then and he stared at Maes' averted eyes in the rearview mirror.

"...Maes," he asked slowly, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No!" Maes said quickly, "No, I just... I think you just need some help..."

"My god, you _do_..." Roy breathed, his heart sinking and his eyes widening with horror, "You think I've lost my mind."

"Roy..." Maes started as if about to defend himself, but then he stopped, knowing that there _was_ no defense. He really thought that Roy needed psychological help and was not going to deny it.

"Stop the car, Maes," Roy rasped, grabbing his crutches. "Let me out."

"Let me just drive you home and we can talk about this..." Maes said, sounding as if it was taking all of his willpower to keep from crying.

"I don't _want_ to fucking talk to you! Stop the goddamned car!"

"No."

Roy glared at Maes, indignation and rage boiling up from beneath his skin and melting the frigid, anguished shame that had surrounded his heart. The incensed Colonel grabbed the latch and opened the door without waiting for the car to stop.

Maes saw him open the door and gave a panicked curse, slamming on the breaks and bringing the car to a skidding halt. Thrown forward by the sudden stop, Roy's broken leg jammed violently against the seat in front of him, sending a sharp, fiery bolt of pain through him so intense that he didn't even have time to gasp before...

_...The mallet swung downward again in a gracefully deadly arc. Roy closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, trying desperately to hold back the strangled scream that was already fighting to escape from him as he braced himself for the blow. The head of the sledgehammer found its mark just below Roy's knee and he felt the bones there splinter with such clarity that the cry torn from him was swallowed by the deafening crunch. _

_Pieces of the shattered bone jutted from his leg. He could feel the bright, freezing pain of his bones—which, before now, had always been nestled between warm flesh and muscles—being exposed to the open air. Roy doubled over and dry heaved, the agony in his leg so shockingly excruciating that he wondered briefly if the pain would kill him. God, he hoped it would._

_Jenkins grabbed him by his hair and wrenched his head back, leaning in so that their faces were inches apart. Roy could smell cigarettes on his rancid breath._

"_Where is he?" the man hissed, ignoring the spots of Roy's blood that had splattered upward and flecked his filthy cheek with red._

_Roy tried to say, "I don't know," but he managed little more than a tiny, frantic gasp that sounded disconcertingly like a sob._

Please, no more...

_Jenkins gave an irritated snort and reached down to grab Roy's blood-slick ankle. Very gently, he gave Roy's leg a little twist._

_Roy threw his head back and screamed into the shadowed confines of the auditorium, the sound so hauntingly pained and unnatural that it could only scarcely be called a scream. It was a savage, animal sound that spoke of nothing but primal agony. Roy's remaining men shouted encouragement and support to him from the other side of the room, but the Colonel barely heard them over the roar of suffering in his own head._

"_Where. Is. He?"_

Resembool.

_He almost said it. The word was on the tip of his blood-tainted tongue, begging to be released, for then maybe the pain would stop. Roy mastered himself before he could let it slip but, god, he couldn't hold back much longer. It was too much._

_Jenkins twisted his leg again, tearing another helpless scream from the Colonel._

Tell him Resembool! Tell him Dublith! Tell him ANYTHING! _Roy's mind screeched._

_(Roy!)_

_Roy opened his bleeding mouth to speak, the faintest shuddering moan issuing from his throat._

"_Yes, Colonel? Something to say?"_

_(Oh, god, Roy... talk to me. Just say something...)_

"Hah... H-hydrogen..."_ Roy rasped, his voice so low and warped by injury that it was nearly inaudible. _

"_Did he say 'Hydrogen'...?" one of Jenkins' men asked curiously._

"Non... n-nonmetal; at-t-tomic mass of one point zero... z-zero seven nine... four..._"_

_(No! No, god, please don't start that again... please, just look at me...)_

"Helium... noble gas; atomic... atomic m-mass of four point zero zero two six zero two..._"_

_(Roy, open your eyes!)_

...Roy felt a gentle hand cupping his face and someone's breath warm on his cheek. He fought his eyes open to look at the man crouching beside him, but they were too hazed with pain to see much and the corners of his vision pulsed black with every beat of his heart. Roy hissed and dug his gloved fingers into the black fabric of the seat beneath him, doing everything in his power to keep from crying out as a wave of agony washed over him.

The pain in his leg was radiating upward in a jagged line to his hip so sharply that he could do nothing but sit back and try to breathe through it. The Colonel leaned his head back against the seat and panted air in desperately through clenched teeth, battling against the urge to vomit.

"Roy, I'm so sorry...!" Maes moaned frantically, still stroking Roy's cold cheek, "I thought you were going to jump out, I _had_ to stop. I didn't mean to hurt you... oh, fuck, you're white as a sheet... Let me take you back to the hospital..."

"N-no," Roy gasped, "just take me home..."

"You're _shaking_, Roy... what if I've really injured you? What if you're in shock?"

Roy rolled his head over to look at Maes. The man was absolutely terrified. His face was pale and his lips were a tight line of anxiety. The anger that Roy had felt toward him only moments before was all but forgotten in the haze of pain. After a moment's hesitation, Roy reached up and pulled Maes' hand away from his cheek, squeezing it reassuringly.

"I... I th-think I'm okay. Really." Roy said softly, then let go of Maes' hand as a far-off shudder reminded him of his phobia and he automatically whispered, "Don't touch me," under his breath without really meaning to.

_(You'll never escape)_

_Shut up..._

_(You're mine)_

_Shut UP._

Maes looked both nervous and hesitant, but then he nodded slowly, "Okay, Roy... but I'm staying over tonight to keep an eye on you... just in case."

Roy agreed with a trembling smile that that was fair. Maes stood up from his crouched position on the curb where he had fretfully parked and closed the car door. The moment Maes moved back over to the driver's seat and started the car, the forced smile slid from Roy's face and he closed his eyes tightly again, clenching his jaw and trying to keep himself from hyperventilating.

For the entire rest of the drive—which really wasn't all that long, but Roy's leg was absolutely killing him and he was eager to get his hands on some of the painkillers he'd been sent home with—Maes kept glancing furtively at his passenger, deep worry furrowing his pallid brow. When they finally arrived at Roy's apartment, Roy had to tolerate the support of Maes' shoulder or else he never would have made it to the door. Luckily the pain had faded into a dull throbbing during the drive, but that didn't mean that Roy could get out of the car and into his apartment unaided...

"Well, at least you're on the first floor," Maes said with an anxious kind of smile as he gently led his friend forward.

Roy nodded breathlessly, but did not venture so far as to speak as he staggered over the threshold of his domicile. Maes ushered him over to the couch as quickly as he was able and eased him down into the cushions. Roy hissed as he shifted his leg, but then leaned back with a contented sigh and stared up at the ceiling. _His_ ceiling. In _his_ apartment.

God, it was good to be home.

"I sorted your mail for you," Maes said, rummaging through Roy's bag of medical supplies, looking for the Colonel's anesthetics without needing to be asked, "And I watered your plant... It died anyway."

Roy looked over and, sure enough, the plant that he kept on the windowsill was drooping, brown, and resolutely dead.

"No big loss," Roy shrugged with a tired smile, gratefully rolling up his sleeve so that Maes could inject him with painkillers. Thusly dosed, Roy laid himself down on the couch, curling up on his side and hugging one of the throw pillows to his chest. The pillow smelled of dust and some stale, musty scent that reminded Roy of a tomb. The apartment had been uninhabited for nearly three months and Roy could almost smell how barren it had been in his absence.

"...You sure you're okay?" Maes asked after a brief silence, tilting his head to the side as he looked down at his friend.

"Yes," Roy said quietly, his voice muffled by the pillow, "It just... really hurts. I'll be fine once the drugs kick in."

"Alright, Roy. Try to get some sleep. It's been a... difficult day."

Roy nodded and closed his eyes, burying his face even deeper into the pillow and feeling safer than he had in months. He was suddenly exhausted. He could feel the drugs flowing through his veins in a warm rush that went straight to his head. He opened his eyes and saw that the room was spinning very slowly.

..._That shouldn't be happening._

"Goddamn, Maes... How much of that stuff did you give me?" Roy asked, already feeling the downward pull of the drug.

"More than enough to knock you out." Maes admitted, sounding a little guilty.

The tiniest wave of fear clutched Roy's insides. "I don't like being sedated, Maes," he said waveringly, trying to sit up again and failing. "I just needed something for the pain. You had no right to sedate me..."

"I know... but you need it. You can yell at me tomorrow. For now, just sleep it off. I'll be here when you wake up."

Part of Roy was angry, even a little frightened that Maes would haul off and sedate him without asking... but the rest of him was already mellowed by the tranquilizer and his eyes slid shut again. His head was heavy and filled with the not-unpleasant buzz of sedatives. He stopped fighting the drug that Maes had covertly injected him with and went under, vaguely registering the sensation of Maes brushing a ragged lock of hair out of his closed eyes.

"Don't... touch me..." Roy whispered, then gave in to oblivion and fell deeply asleep.


	9. And Yet So Very Dead

Maes watched Roy's body relax—the Colonel's ragged breathing becoming deep and even—and allowed himself to feel a rush of relief in spite of the guilt nagging at the back of his mind. He shouldn't have done it. He knew that he shouldn't have drugged his best friend like that... and that brief flash of terror in Roy's eyes when he realized what Maes had done had been like a kick to the face... but, still, he was glad that he'd done it. Roy had clearly been in a lot of pain, and Maes knew from experience over the last week or so that he could not take all of the pain away without knocking him out entirely.

And it wasn't even just the physical pain that he was taking into consideration; Roy and Maes had given each other a lot to think about during the drive back to the Colonel's apartment...

Maes sighed and moved forward, carefully collecting Roy in his arms and lifting him off the couch, making sure not to put too much pressure on the burns between his shoulder blades. The Major was hit with the sudden chill of déjà vu as he cradled his best friend in his arms. He recalled vividly the pained scream that had ripped itself from Roy's throat when he'd lifted the broken Colonel off of the blood-smeared floor of the auditorium... but Maes pushed the haunting memory from his mind and carried Roy into his bedchamber.

Maes laid his friend down on his bed gently, trying not to think about how unnaturally light he had become or how prominent his collarbone was under his thin black t-shirt. Roy really needed to gain some weight, but getting him to eat was a constant battle; Maes didn't know what he was going to do now that Roy didn't even have the intravenous nutrients that he'd been given in the hospital... oh well, they'd figure something out. Maybe he'd have Gracia bring over some soup for him.

The Major unlaced and removed Roy's shoe; the man was only wearing one, since his other leg was strapped into a heavy-duty brace from knee to foot. Maes hesitated for only a moment, then moved to un-strap the brace.

This had been the other reason for sedating Roy so forcefully; Maes needed to be sure that the leg was okay and knew without a doubt that Roy would not have let him check it while he was conscious. Luckily, the full cast had been cut off some days ago and replaced with this removable brace. They weren't supposed to remove it except for to clean the stitches underneath, of course... not for a few more weeks, at least... but Maes felt that taking it off for a few moments now was entirely justified. If Roy had really been hurt in the car, it was far better to deal with it now than to wait.

And besides, Roy wouldn't be able to argue against going back to the hospital while so drugged-up if he really _had_ been hurt.

Maes opened up the brace and eyed the gauze-covered tangle of stitched flesh below Roy's knee. There were vivid spots of blood seeping through the gauze, confirming that some of the stitches had been torn. Thankfully, it wasn't bleeding enough to really worry about, though, and Maes sighed his relief. The area was a little swollen, but it didn't look as if any further damage had been done. Satisfied—although still a little anxious—Maes cleaned the area with antiseptics, changed the gauze, and replaced the brace.

Maes sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at his best friend as he had done so many times in recent weeks. Roy was getting better. His color was returning, his bruises were fading, and he seemed to be in a better mood overall, a fact that buoyed Maes' spirits more than anything else. The look of relief and muted joy on Roy's face when they wheeled him out of the hospital had been intensely heartening; Roy had always been fond of the autumn leaves, and to see him take some small pleasure in the multicolored liquid amber trees had been a beautiful thing.

He was even becoming better about being touched. For the most part, it still frightened him a little, but he'd started making tiny, unconscious gestures of physical contact within the past few days. He'd touch Maes to get his attention sometimes and more than once he'd thoughtlessly taken Maes' hand or simply leaned close to him so that their shoulders touched. It was almost if Roy's subconscious was desperate for physical comfort, but the moment that Roy realized that he was touching someone he'd jerk away again. It was still a problem, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been.

Maes had been overjoyed when Roy let him help him into the back of the car with only the briefest hesitation. Roy certainly hadn't enjoyed the contact, but he had allowed it without comment or outward fear. That was an excellent sign in Maes' opinion.

Clearly, he was much better than he'd been when he'd first awoken... but he still was not himself. He wasn't "crazy"—Maes would never say that—but the man _was_ under a great amount of psychological strain. There was that obsessive-compulsive tick for one thing; Maes had no idea what to do about Roy's desperate attachment to his gloves. Roy kept rubbing his fingers together and making sparks, but he said that he was trying to stop and Maes fully believed him. Well, if it made Roy feel better, then Maes could hardly complain...

Roy still had the nightmares, and sometimes Maes got the impression that he had hallucinations of some kind: Roy would stare off into space and then his eyes would open wide with horror or he'd flinch for no reason... or sometimes he'd go absolutely silent, his head tilted to the side as if he were listening to something that only he could hear.

Voices, Maes thought.

As of yet, Maes had not had the courage to ask about it. Today during the car ride had been his first real attempt at getting Roy to admit to his post-traumatic frailties, and it was clear to see that it had not gone well. God, when Roy had started listing those elements again... it was like someone had stabbed Maes in the chest with a rusted blade. The Major didn't think he'd ever been so terrified in his life.

To lose Roy again like that... for him to be alive and yet so very dead... and then for Maes to know that it was his fault...

That was just too hard to think about.

Maes shook his head and cleared his mind of that harrowing picture. No. Roy was going to be fine. He probably wouldn't really have jumped out of the car, either... he probably just did it to make Maes hit the brakes... but the problem was that Maes didn't know for sure. Roy had always been unpredictable, but after he'd set the bed on fire... who's to say what he would or would not do?

Maes' vision hazed over and he swallowed hard. It was like Ishbal all over again. Only worse. When the Flame Alchemist had come home from that bloody massacre, he had been a changed man. He had always been brooding and distant, but the guilt he suffered in the wake of committing genocide for the sake of his country had made those traits exponentially more intense. He'd eventually gotten over it for the most part—after a stern talking-to and a solid punch in the face, followed by a night of heavy drinking as he and Maes held each other and wept—and returned to some semblance of the young man he had been when Maes had first met him... but Maes knew from the moment he got off that train from the East that Roy would never be exactly the same.

And now... _God_...

Maes leaned down and collected Roy in his arms again, a tiny moan of anguish breaking from him. He held the limp body close against his chest and wished desperately that Roy would allow this kind of contact while awake. Maes buried his face against Roy's throat so that the man's carotid artery pulsed a warm and steady rhythm against his brow, an encouraging reminder that the motionless man was still alive. The Major gritted his teeth, fighting hard against the prickling of tears beneath his eyelids.

Roy would get through this. He had to. He'd gotten through Ishbal all right, hadn't he? Whatever it took, Maes would help him. Roy had _a lot_ of people willing to help him, for that matter... he had Beal and Hawkeye and Havoc and all the rest of his staff... Maes would bet that even Ed would...

Maes paused and lifted his head, his train of thought derailed by that name. His face darkened.

_Ed._

A sudden anger welled in Maes' chest, filling him with a hot, manic sort of energy that made him want to break something. Ed still hadn't called. It had been almost two weeks, and Ed _still_ hadn't called or shown his face.

Maes let go of Roy and wiped his eyes with irritation, straightening himself as he reached for the bedside telephone. He was not going to let this slide any longer. Ed had some explaining to do. How _dare_ him... After everything that Roy had been through...

Maes' hand shook slightly as he dialed the number, gritting his teeth as he put the phone to his ear and waited for the little bastard to answer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The phone on the edge of the table rang. Ed ignored it, preferring to bury his nose back into his book. After the third ring, though, the kid suddenly remembered that Alphonse was out grocery shopping and was therefore unavailable to answer the phone for him. So, with a sigh, Edward marked his place in the book and lurched to his feet to get the phone.

"Hullo?" he said into the receiver, hoping that it was a wrong number so that he could get back to reading.

"_Hey, Ed. It's Hughes_," said the caller.

Ed's insides did a guilty somersault, "...Hiya, Major... what's up?" he asked with false levity, already knowing the reason for the call.

"_You were supposed to visit Roy,"_ Hughes said accusingly, his voice quietly angry.

"...Yeah, well... I was going to... I mean, I _will_, but..." Ed stammered, but Hughes interrupted him.

"_Do you have _any_ idea how much he sacrificed for you, Edward!?"_ he exploded abruptly, although he sounded as if he was trying to keep his voice low, "_Do you have any fucking clue as to what he went through just to keep you safe!?"_

Ed opened his mouth to say something, but then balked; he'd never heard the Major yell like this before.

"_He would have died for you, Edward, and you won't even call him to let him know that you're okay_?"

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"_I mean..."_ the Major interrupted again, but then he faltered and his voice took on a softer, more lamenting quality, "_I know you've never really liked him... but he's my best friend, Ed..."_

He was crying. Ed hadn't realized it before because the man had been yelling, but now that he'd reigned in his anger, there was nothing to hide his grief.

"...Are you okay?" Ed asked him, a tiny jab of fear and sympathy making his voice waver, "Did something happen...?"

Ed knew that Mustang was supposed to be released from the hospital today; had something gone wrong, perhaps...? Ed guiltily understood Hughes' anger, but the tears were unexpected.

"_It's just..."_ Hughes began with a quiet sob, still trying to keep his voice low as if afraid that someone would overhear him, "_he scared me pretty badly today. It's really nothing but, god... he... got hurt and he started listing those damn elements again and for a moment there, I... I thought I'd lost him again_."

Ed didn't say anything, but his heart gave a silent wail of pity for the Major.

"_I'm sorry_," Hughes continued after a pause, clearly trying to master himself, "_I shouldn't be taking it out on you. It's just hard to see him like this, even though he's so much better than he was just a few days ago... But you should have come to see him. There's no excuse for not even calling, Ed."_

"I know, Major," Ed said softly, speaking past the sudden mournful lump in his throat, "I'm sorry, too... I'll go see him right now, if you want me to..."

"_No,"_ Hughes sniffed, "_now is not really the best time... We're at his apartment now, but he's in a lot of pain so I had to drug him pretty heavily. He's asleep and I don't expect him to wake up any time soon."_

"Tomorrow, then?"

"_Maybe. He says he needs to talk to you about something, so we'll see if he's up to it tomorrow."_

"Will... will you be there, too?" Ed couldn't keep himself from asking, ashamed of the trepidation in his voice.

The Major sighed, "_I know it's a little scary, Ed... but just act like everything is normal and you'll do fine on your own. He's _much_ better than the last time you saw him, really. Besides, he kind of hinted that he wanted to speak to you privately."_

"Do you know what he wants to talk about...?"

"_...I think I have a pretty good idea. Don't worry about it. I think, above all else, he just wants to know that you're okay."_

Ed swallowed hard, "Okay. I'll call tomorrow about coming over."

"_Sounds good. I'll talk to you then_."

"...Major?" Ed asked tentatively.

"_Yeah, kiddo?"_

The kid licked his lips nervously, "Did you mean what you said... about Mustang sacrificing himself for me? I mean, was he really protecting _me_? Was it because of what I did in Lior?"

Ed felt stupid and childish asking it, but he needed to know. Hughes did not answer for several beats, causing the bottom of Ed's stomach to drop out into cold oblivion.

"_Yes, Ed_," the Major said finally, but not without regret, "_The people of Lior were out for your blood, and they knew that the Colonel was close to you. They tortured him because he refused to tell them where you were._"

Ed closed his suddenly stinging eyes and fought against the painful tightness surrounding his heart. So it _had_ been his fault...

"_He may not show it... and you may not believe me... but Roy loves you boys. He would do anything for you and Alphonse. I hope you understand that by now."_

"...I'll talk to you tomorrow, Major," Ed managed to gasp into the phone, completely unable to keep the barely-suppressed tears from his voice.

"_Oh, Ed..._" the Major lamented softly, but Ed cut him off with a brusque goodbye and hung up the phone, covering his mouth with one hand as he lowered himself into a chair.

Ed was still sitting like that when Al returned from the store a few minutes later. Al took one look at him and immediately asked what was wrong. Ed stared at him blankly for a few beats, then a thin wail escaped from him and he buried his face in his hands, unable to put his grief into words.


	10. The Assignment

Ed didn't really sleep much that night. Alphonse kept telling him to stop worrying, but Ed couldn't help it. Guilt weighed on his shoulders, a heavy burden that assaulted his mind with images of the Colonel being beaten and tortured to keep his youngest subordinate safe. What little sleep he did manage to get was interrupted by nightmares of blood-spattered walls and men with shadowed faces.

Needless to say, Ed was exhausted by the time he found the nerve to wander over to Mustang's apartment the next morning. He didn't bother calling beforehand, even though he'd promised Major Hughes that he would; Ed was half-afraid that Hughes would tell him that today wasn't a good day, either and if that was the case Ed wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to gather his courage to come again tomorrow. He did not want to go through another night of bad dreams and worry. He just wanted to get this over with, whether or not Hughes thought Mustang was ready.

Ed raised his hand and knocked on the door. A good part of him felt the immediate urge to run away before anyone answered and forget the whole thing... but Ed stood his ground, fidgeting and wishing to be any place but there.

"_I am capable of answering my own door, Maes_," the Colonel's voice declared with groggy irritation from the other side of the door. Ed immediately felt a little better, heartened by Mustang's voice. It wasn't the man's voice itself that was so reassuring, but the oh-so-familiar irritation in it that put Ed's mind a little at ease. Mustang sounded perfectly normal, so unlike the ranting mess he had been when Ed had last seen him.

After a long pause, the door finally opened and Mustang stood in the threshold, looking a little disheveled and leaning heavily on his crutches. He looked down at Ed blankly for a moment, then his dark eyes widened and the Colonel's already unspeakably pale skin blanched an even brighter shade of white. Mustang drew in a slow, shuddering gasp and put his hand to his forehead, exhaling his breath out again in the form of an incredulous and completely humorless bark of laughter.

"I keep forgetting that you're alive," the Colonel stated in a desperate whisper, sounding as if he was speaking more to himself than to Ed.

Ed didn't really know how he was supposed to respond to that, and so stayed awkwardly silent as the Colonel's eyes searched him, almost as if the man were looking for any injuries. After a moment though, Mustang seemed to remember himself and he straightened, his haunted eyes becoming hard and professional.

"You should have called, Fullmetal," he said in that same patronizing drawl that Ed had become so familiar with over the past few years, "When I summon you, I expect you to come."

Mustang turned from the door and limped back into the room without looking to see if Ed was going to follow him. After the briefest pause, Ed found the gumption to step into the Colonel's apartment and close the door behind him.

Major Hughes was standing next to the window beside the door, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ed and the Colonel. He looked torn between worry, relief, irritation and exasperation. He was probably not happy that Ed had shown up without calling first, but still, the fact that Ed had come at all certainly made it hard for him to be truly angry.

Ed flashed the Major a weak smile and watched Mustang disappear into the other room. Hughes sighed through his long nose and took Ed's arm gently.

"You really should have called," he said, keeping his voice low so that Mustang wouldn't overhear.

Ed was suddenly aware of the tension in the apartment. He'd been too distracted to notice it when he'd first stepped in, but now it was hard to ignore.

"Have you two been arguing...?" Ed asked.

"You could say that. He's being very difficult this morning… he won't let me give him his pain meds and I know he needs them," the man sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "He's just being stubborn. He's mad at me because yesterday I... well, nevermind. Just be careful with him, okay?"

Ed wasn't exactly sure what Hughes meant by that, but he nodded and followed the Major into the room Mustang had disappeared into.

The Colonel was lowering himself awkwardly onto his couch. The tiniest wince of pain crossed Mustang's face as he sat back, but other than that his expression was entirely businesslike, as if they were all at HQ in his office rather than in his living room with medical supplies littering the coffee table.

"Sit," Mustang commanded, his tone so joyously normal in spite of his weakened appearance that Ed briefly entertained the idea of defying him as he usually would have... but one look from the Major informed him that he should just do as he was told and he quickly sat down on the other end of the couch.

Mustang raised his dark gaze to Hughes, his eyes cold.

"That will be all, Major."

"Do you want me to dose you before I go?" Hughes asked, gesturing vaguely to the bag of medical supplies on the table.

"You're dismissed," was all Mustang said in frigid reply.

For a split second Hughes looked as if he would protest, but then he moved to stand at attention and saluted his Colonel.

"Yes, sir."

That said, Hughes stiffly turned on heel and exited the room without a backward glance. Mustang watched him go with an implacable expression, waiting until he heard his front door close before he turned his attentions back to Ed.

He didn't say anything at first; actually looked as if he didn't know what to say, which was an odd thing to see from the typically very articulate Colonel. Ed's uneasiness intensified as he met that blue-black gaze with his own golden one.

Something behind those dark eyes just wasn't right...

"You look good," Ed said airily, desperate to break the silence, "...Compared to the last time I saw you, at least."

"And when was that?" Mustang asked, raising his eyebrows.

"When you were in the hospital."

"You... you saw me in the hospital?" the man queried a little uneasily.

"Oh, well, I guess you wouldn't remember... you were pretty out of it..." Ed began with a shrug, "but I was visiting you the day you woke up."

Mustang's brow furrowed, "I only remember Hughes that night."

"You woke up for a little while before that during the day, but you weren't really... there, I guess. You just kinda ranted and kept telling me to run away, swearing that you didn't tell them anything..."

Ed trailed off, noticing the sudden disquiet on Mustang's face. Ed cursed inwardly, wondering why he could never seem to keep his big mouth shut. Al kept telling him that he needed to work on his blatant lack of tact...

Mustang shook himself after a moment and his uneasy expression dissolved away into a cold blankness.

"I wasn't aware that had happened. I apologize if I frightened you," he said finally, his voice as dark as his eyes.

"You didn't," Ed lied.

There was another long, deafening silence in the room for a few beats.

"I want you to stay in Central, Edward," Mustang said abruptly, pinning the kid with his gaze.

Ed blinked. "For how long?"

"Until I say you can leave. A few months, at least."

"_What? _ A few _months_?" Ed sputtered incredulously, "You can't expect me to stay here that long!"

"That's funny, because that is exactly what I _do _expect from you," Mustang said smoothly.

"I have research to do!"

"Research can wait."

"That's bullshit!" Ed shouted, getting angrier by the second. "This isn't fair!"

"Life usually isn't."

"Why do you want me to stay? What possible reason could you have?"

Mustang paused for a moment, breaking the familiar rhythm of their argument.

"A lot of people want you dead, Fullmetal. People from Lior," he said finally, his voice a little too careful.

"Well... yeah, so?" Ed rejoined after a beat, trying to hold onto his irritation even though he was distracted by a renewed uneasiness as he watched the Colonel, "There are always people after me..."

"Not like this."

"...Besides," Ed continued, plastering a cocky smile onto his face that he didn't feel, "the papers say that the ringleaders were all arrested..."

Mustang didn't say anything, but Ed noticed his gloved thumb and middle finger twitch a little as if about to call a flame.

"...So... so there's nothing to worry about..."

Again, the fingers twitched.

"...You're just being paranoid."

"_Damn it_, Ed!" the Colonel exploded suddenly, rounding on him, "Can't you just listen to me for _once_ in your life? I mean, my god, all I'm asking from you is to _stay put_!"

Ed subconsciously sat back a little, surprised and unsettled by the outburst. Mustang was shaking, Ed slowly started to realize. The man's stiff composure had all but evaporated, widening his eyes and stealing the remaining color from his pallid complexion. Ed was suddenly inundated with a wave of alarm, reading the sick, abrupt terror on Mustang's face. There was a whispering of hysteria there, a faint, raw hint of the madness that Ed had witnessed the day that the Colonel had awoken.

The Colonel reached up and cupped Ed's face in his gloved hand and the boy did not dare to pull away.

"You can't even imagine what they would do to you if they ever caught you...!" Mustang rasped desperately, running his thumb over Ed's cheekbone and staring so deeply into the boy's eyes that it sucked the breath from his lungs, "I know that I'm being paranoid; I _know_ that, okay? But I can't help it! You have... _no_ idea what they are capable of... The only thing that kept me sane in Lior was knowing that I was keeping you safe and if they caught you now, Ed... after everything that happened, after all the lives that were lost..."

Mustang's voice broke and he had to clench his teeth to form his next words:

"Please... just don't make it worth nothing."

Ed was speechless for a moment, his insides churning with cold anxiety. This was almost worse than that day in the hospital, because the madness then had been entirely understandable. The man had been hallucinating then; he'd been heavily medicated and dazed from two weeks of catatonia. Now, though, he was lucid... he was awake and healing and he knew what he was saying... but as much as he was trying to hide it, there was still something very wrong with him.

"...Colonel, are you okay?" Ed managed to ask in a pained whisper, his amber eyes huge.

Mustang stared at him for a moment, then gasped and jerked his hand away from Ed's cheek as if burned.

"Don't touch me," he croaked softly, breaking their eye-contact and looking as if he'd only just realized who he was talking to. He straightened himself and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if to compose himself. Within seconds, the broken man had replaced his expressionless shield, becoming the cold military leader once again and shoving back his terror.

"You will do as you're told," Mustang said flatly without opening his eyes, unable to keep a slight tremor from his otherwise-strong voice.

"...Yes, sir," Ed promised quietly, feeling sick and shaky.

Mustang opened his bleary eyes again and looked at his subordinate. Mustang watched him for a moment with an unreadable expression, then the man's shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face with his hands.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, trying valiantly to sound more exasperated than desperate, "I'm just tired and in a lot of pain this morning... I'm not thinking right."

Ed bit his lip and fought hard to swallow back his disquiet. He felt that he should say something, but his mind was too shocked by Mustang's obvious frailty to put his thoughts into words.

"Is... is there anything I can do...?" Ed managed tentatively after several painful beats of silence.

Mustang looked at him for a moment thoughtfully, then the corner of his mouth twitched in a surprisingly fond—though undoubtedly sad—smile.

"Yes, actually..." the man said with a resigned sigh, reaching forward for the medical bag on the table. He rummaged through it and pulled out a hypodermic needle. "You can dose me; my dislocated shoulder hasn't completely healed yet, so it's awkward for me to inject myself in the arm like I'm supposed to and I really... _really_ need it right now."

Ed stiffened as he eyed the needle. The only thing that kept him from refusing outright was the fact that he knew Mustang wouldn't have asked unless he really did need the help. Still, an uncomfortable whine eeked from Ed's throat before he could stop himself and Mustang arched an eyebrow at him questioningly, pausing in his task of filling the syringe from a little ampule he'd also taken from the bag.

"I... don't like needles..." Ed admitted, a little embarrassed but more than willing to divert the subject away from Mustang's weaknesses to his own. For some reason, that was much safer ground.

"...Oh?" Mustang asked at length, looking a bit surprised as he flicked the side of the syringe to force any air-bubbles out of the needle, "I'd assumed that you'd be right at home with needles, given your colorful medical background..."

"Yeah, well... just because I had to get shots all the time when I was getting my automail doesn't mean that they just magically stopped bothering me..." Ed mumbled, hesitantly taking the offered needle as the Colonel pushed up his sleeve.

"...I suppose there are some things that you can never get used to, no matter how many times you experience it." Mustang agreed after a moment.

Ed bit the inside of his lip, painfully aware that the man wasn't really talking about needles. He took the Colonel's arm and pretended not to see the healing gashes and burns marring his pale skin.

Mustang leaned back, watching Ed slide the needle into his arm. Ed's stomach turned and he winced with sympathy as he depressed the syringe, but the Colonel gave no sign that he was bothered by it. Conversely, the man closed his eyes with what looked like relief as Ed pulled the needle back out, the muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxing as the drug worked through him. Ed hadn't realized that Mustang was in that much discomfort until he saw the rigidity of pain leave his face, easing the tightness in his jaw and smoothing the furrowed lines of his brow.

"Why didn't you let the Major dose you if you were in so much pain?" Ed asked with a concerned kind of curiosity, setting the needle on the table and deliberately turning away from it with a suppressed shudder.

"...Doesn't matter," Mustang mumbled, opening his newly drug-glazed eyes and looking at Ed.

Ed knew better than to pursue the issue and didn't say anything. Silence stretched between them a little uncomfortably until Mustang broke it:

"You'll stay in Central, then?" he asked, an apologetic kind of exhaustion softening his words.

"Yeah."

"Swear it."

"...I swear, Colonel."

Mustang nodded, satisfied with his answer. He pushed himself upright again and reached for a folded stack of papers on the table.

"I know I'm expecting a lot from you to stay in one place for so long, so I have a local assignment for you," he handed the papers to Ed and waited for the boy to reestablish eye-contact before continuing, "It isn't anything overtly difficult. The supplies are already paid for, you just have to go pick them up. You could probably finish this in a few hours if you wanted to... but if you take your time—and I sincerely hope that you _do_—then it should occupy you for a week or so. You may even enjoy it. This assignment allows for more freedom and... _creativity_ than I typically allot you; but I trust you won't exploit that."

Curiously, Ed started to unfold the papers, but Mustang interrupted him:

"Read it later. This assignment isn't strictly military, Ed, so you're under no obligation to undertake it if you really don't want to. I'll understand."

Ed gave him an uncertain look. The Colonel had never given him a choice before when it came to completing assignments. Well, he'd think about it later. Ed shoved the papers into his pocket and—after a short pause—got to his feet. He should go; Ed could see that Mustang was tired and probably still in some pain in spite of his injection.

"Will that be all, sir?" Ed asked, tilting his head to the side as he looked down at his superior. Mustang looked up at him with a suddenly pained expression, but he hid it quickly behind his emotionless mask again. He didn't want Ed to leave, the boy realized. Something within Edward's chest tightened sharply, constricting his breath and filling him with an awkward kind of pity. The man didn't want to be alone...

"That's all, Fullmetal. You are dismissed," Mustang intoned, his voice surprisingly strong.

"I'll... I'll just let myself out then..." Ed stumbled, sketching a bow. He half-considered staying with the man for a bit longer, but frankly he didn't know if he'd have the courage. To be honest, Ed wanted to run out of the room as quickly as he was able. He wanted to be back outside... away from the Colonel, where the air would not be quite so stifling. It was selfish and it was weak, but Ed wanted to get as far away from Mustang as he could so that he wouldn't have to see those haunted eyes or hear how his powerful voice made thin and choked by abuse.

Worse than _having_ these feelings though, was the fact that Ed had no doubt in his mind that Mustang _knew_ that he had them. The man was well aware of Ed's discomfort, but did not seem to blame him for it; even looked as if he understood, as if he was becoming accustomed to it... Ed could see that Mustang didn't blame him for anything. There had been no accusation in him when he spoke to Ed of Lior, nor did the thought of blaming Ed for his torture seemed to have ever entered the Colonel's mind...

Somehow, that was even more heartbreaking than if the Colonel _had_ blamed Ed.

Ed gave the man another stiff, courteous nod, feeling nauseated and hating himself as he turned to leave.

"Edward..." Mustang called after him suddenly.

The boy turned back, blinking quickly to erase the faint beginnings of tears from his eyes before they could be noticed.

"Sir?"

"I... want to ask you something..."

"...Yeah?"

The Colonel hesitated for a moment as if trying to compose what he wanted to say, then he took a deep breath and said:

"Maes... Major Hughes told me that he thinks I'm... unwell," the Colonel began softly, "He says that he sees something wrong with me. I just need to know... you see it too, don't you?"

Ed's mouth went dry as he stared openly at his commander, his insides aching. Mustang was being purposefully vague with the way he worded the question, giving Ed a way out. The Colonel was giving Ed the opportunity to answer the question as if he was being asked about Mustang's physical health... but Ed knew that the real question was rooted in the man's mental instabilities.

What Mustang was really asking was, _"Do you think I've lost it Edward? Do you see that I've gone mad?_"

"...Yeah," Ed rasped, hating himself even more as the syllable left his lips, "Yeah, I do see it."

Mustang's dark eyes widened slightly, looking at Ed as if the boy had just stabbed him. Then he closed his eyes and nodded resignedly.

"Thank you for being honest. You can go," he said quietly, seeming to wilt before Edward's eyes. The man inclined his head and placed his gloved hand across his brow, defeat emanating from his battered form.

"Colonel..." Ed began softly, taking a step toward him. Ed was not a very physically affectionate person, but he didn't think he'd ever wanted to hold anyone so badly in his life.

"Just leave, Ed. Please." Mustang whispered.

Heart in his throat, Ed moved to obey and left the room. He didn't need to be told again. He stepped out of the door and closed it behind him. He took a deep breath of the morning air, but its briskness did not make him feel any less smothered.

Ed stopped and turned back to the door.

How could he just leave Mustang alone like this...? Knowing how fragile he was... seeing his raw pain and then confirming the man's suspicion of his own madness... How could Ed even think of turning his back on him now, especially after Mustang had given everything for Ed without asking anything in return...?

Ed raised his hand and rested it on the doorknob, the cool brass clinking against his gloved automail fingers. But then he swallowed hard and dropped his arm to his side again. He just couldn't make himself go back in there.

"Coward," he whispered to himself, his voice tremulously self-loathing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Roy pulled back the curtain a crack and looked outside.

The kid was still there.

Ed had been sitting on the Colonel's doorstep for the past fifteen minutes, his eyes lowered and his brow furrowed with thought as his stared into the empty space in front of him. He wasn't doing anything in particular... he was just sitting there like a vigilant guard dog protecting his master.

Roy smiled in spite of himself. Ed was a good kid when he wanted to be. He was loyal and honest...

Above all things, he was honest.

_"Yeah. Yeah, I do see it."_

The words echoed in Roy's head, accompanying the other voices that had been there for weeks.

_(Where is he?)_

_You won't take him from me._

_(You can't stop me.)_

_Shut up._

_(I OWN you, you piece of shit!)_

"Shut up!"

Roy's hoarse voice resounded in the empty room and he shook himself, taking a deep breath. Outside, Ed raised his head slightly as if he'd heard the Colonel's outburst. Roy stepped back from the window with whispered curse, but Ed's attention was already elsewhere.

The kid pulled the folded papers that detailed his assignment out of his pocket and unfolded them, beginning to read. Ed's eyes scanned the papers, flipping through the pages of notes and sketches that Roy had painstakingly drawn out with splinted hands while still in the hospital. Roy held his breath, waiting for Ed to react to what he was reading.

Finally, Ed turned back to the front page and read it again, almost as if to be absolutely sure of what his Colonel was asking him to do. Then his shoulders slumped and he bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the page.

"Oh, Mustang..." Ed choked to himself, his words so soft that Roy almost didn't hear them, "Of _course_ I'll do it..."

Some of the tightness around Roy's heart dissipated, migrating upward to constrict his throat and blur his eyes with gratitude. Roy clenched his teeth against the near-painful wave of paternal affection that coursed through him, just so relieved that Ed was alive that he felt that he could stand there and watch him for hours...

Instead he wiped his eyes and turned away from one of his only reasons for living, letting the curtain fall back into place and limping back into his dimly-lit room.

He had a few phone calls to make.


	11. Cigarette Burns

_(Riiiiing... riiiing... riii—)_

_"Hello?"_

_"Maes, it's me."_

_"Oh god, Roy, I'm so glad you called. Listen... about the sedative thing..."_

_"Don't worry about it. I'm not really angry, it just... scared me."_

_"I know... and I'm sorry that I scared you."_

_"...Whatever."_

_"..."_

_"..."_

_"So... did you have a good talk with Ed?"_

_"I suppose."_

_"What did you talk about?"_

_"..."_

_"Okay. I understand."_

_"..."_

_"Do you want me to come back over?"_

_"No. I mean... I just... have some thinking to do."_

_"Okay. Can I stop by tomorrow after work?"_

_"...Sure. Look, I have some other calls to make, so I have to go."_

_"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."_

_"And just for the record, Maes: I am NOT crazy."_

_(Click.)_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes yawned gracelessly into his coffee cup, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto his uniform. He frowned tiredly at that for a moment, then shook his head and continued down the hallway of Central HQ. He was too tired to worry about it at the moment. At least the fabric was too dark for a coffee stain to set in.

The Major hadn't had a wink of sleep. He'd lain awake all night, his head full of unwanted thoughts. Roy really had been mad when he'd awoken from his sedation yesterday morning. He'd been too groggy to do much other than shout, but even that had been a painful rebuke. Still, Maes had no regrets about doing it.

Maes was surprised, but pleased when Roy had called him at home a few hours later.

"_I just... have some thinking to do."_ Roy had said, his voice holding an eerie quality that sent a wary chill down Maes' spine.

Even over the phone, it sounded to Maes as if some sort of change had come over Roy. Maes couldn't place it, but he felt that it probably had something to do with Ed's visit. Whatever the case, Roy had refused to talk about it. That was hardly surprising, but what startled Maes was that Ed wouldn't say anything about it either when the Major called him. Clearly, something had happened between them, but neither would say what.

Even more unsettling was the petulant declaration of sanity that Roy had made before hanging up on Maes. Maes had tried calling him back several times over the course of the night, but each time the phone was either busy or simply went unanswered.

Maes had tried to push it from his mind, but his disquieted curiosity had run through his head on over-drive all night. He was a little more relaxed now after a night of thinking it over, though. Whatever had happened between Fullmetal and the Flame was sure to work itself out... at least, that's what Maes was finally able to convince himself after hours of worrying in the dark.

Maes raised his head as he saw someone coming his way.

"I had nothing to do with it," Second Lieutenant Breda announced to him abruptly, holding up his hands innocently as he stalked past Maes down the hall, "Blame it on Havoc."

"Blame what on Havoc...?" Maes called after him confusedly, his groggy mind working slowly.

"You'll see," the Lieutenant replied uneasily without turning around.

Maes groaned inwardly. What now? What else could possibly go wrong? Shaking his head, Maes sighed and continued forward, stalking past the Colonel's office on the way to his own.

He was halfway down the hall before he froze and did a double-take, running back toward Roy's office and staring in through the open doorway.

The Colonel was sitting at his desk, going over paperwork as if it were any other day. His staff looked as if they were all trying to go about their own work, but every eye in the room was riveted to his hunched form. Maes could tell that Roy was doing everything in his power to look and act entirely normal, but something about his presence in the office seemed the very _antithesis_ of "normal". Whether it be the way his uniform hung too loosely off of his shoulders from his weeks of starvation or the dark, exhausted circles under his eyes—or simply the fact that he was actually _fighting_ to appear casual when such a thing usually came naturally to him—Maes didn't know... but whatever it was made Roy's appearance in the office just... _wrong_.

Maes' breath caught in his chest and he shot Hawkeye an incredulous look.

"Good morning, Major," Hawkeye greeted, the tenseness in her shoulders and the forced quality to her smile clearly asking him "_what the hell am I supposed to do about this_?"

Roy looked up when he heard his Lieutenant speak, eyed Maes for a moment, then went back to his work dismissively.

"Uh... Roy?" Maes said tentatively, stepping over to his desk.

"Make it quick, Hughes. I'm busy," he replied without looking up.

"What are you doing here?"

Roy fixed him with a level gaze, one eyebrow arched tolerantly as if he thought Maes was incredibly stupid, "I work here."

"Well, yeah, but... You shouldn't be here, Roy. You... you're still healing. You still have three weeks of sick leave..." Maes stumbled, feeling a little overwhelmed. What the hell was Roy _thinking_? "...How did you even _get_ here?"

"Havoc picked me up."

At hearing his name, Havoc sank a little further down into his seat.

_He ordered me to..._ Havoc mouthed silently to Maes, looking as guilty as a dog that has chewed up his master's boots.

Maes clenched his jaw and turned back to the Colonel.

"Come on, Roy. Let me take you back to your place. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"Roy..."

"I have a meeting with the Fuhrer in a few minutes. Beal and I have a report to give."

Maes paused uncertainly for a beat, then said, "I thought the meeting was next week..."

"I called his secretary last night and arranged to move it up to today."

"But..."

"Maes. Please." Roy said quietly, his voice dropping the casual guise that he'd been trying to maintain, "Just leave it alone and let me do my job... If for no other reason than to prove to you that I still _can_."

"You don't have to prove anything to me! Is that why you're here? If that's the case, then..."

"Just drop it, Maes." Roy snapped, "I can't leave until after I give the report, anyway, so there's no point in continuing this conversation."

Maes sighed, but then nodded resignedly. "Okay, fine. If you think that you're up to it... but if you overtax yourself and end up back in the hospital, Nurse Carol is going to have my hide."

Roy smirked very faintly, "Oh, poor you."

Maes returned Roy's smile with a weak one of his own as Roy flipped out his pocket-watch and consulted the time.

"I should head over to the Fuhrer's office. Beal is probably there already."

"...Do you want me to come?" Maes asked, trying to sound offhand.

"Do what you want," Roy shrugged, using his crutches to help him to his feet.

Without another word, Roy limped out of the office. Maes heaved a sigh and scrubbed his face with his hand.

It was just going to be one of those days...

"I'm sorry, Major..." Havoc said quietly, "I know I shouldn't have brought him in, but..."

"It's not your fault, Lieutenant. You did what you had to... although I wish you'd called me." Maes replied, his eyes still on the door that Roy had just hobbled through.

"He told me not to."

Maes smirked bitterly to himself. Of course.

"He seemed better when he called me up last night... more like himself," Havoc whispered, his voice soft like a frightened child's, "But he's not. He's _not_, Major."

Maes looked over at Havoc in pained surprise at the defeat dripping from his words.

"Did... did something happen during the drive over here...?" Maes asked hesitantly, a little shocked by how obviously unsettled Havoc was.

The man nodded his blond head slowly. "I don't know what happened... He seemed okay. He was in good spirits and it was just... so _great_ to see him feeling better... But then he just..."

Havoc stopped and shook himself, clearing his throat.

"A-all I did was light up a cigarette..." he continued even more quietly, "and he just _freaked out._ He started telling me all these... these _horrible_ things... about how they b-burned cigarettes into him every day. I didn't know. God, if I had known, I never would have..."

Maes closed his eyes briefly, empathizing with Havoc's helpless pain. But of course Havoc hadn't known that a cigarette would set Roy off... he hadn't seen the damage that those little white cylinders had done to Roy's flesh. But Maes had seen it many times. He'd seen the space between Roy's shoulder blades: spotted with dozens of burn scars, each wound perfectly circular from where cigarettes had been ground into his skin. The flesh there reminded Maes perversely of a connect-the-dot puzzle... in fact, if you connected the burns it almost looked as if you could spell out a word...

Maes shook his head, dispelling such morbid thoughts.

"It isn't your fault, Jean..." Maes repeated consolingly, dropping a heavy hand onto the man's shoulder, "You couldn't have known. I was going to tell you because I was afraid that something like this would happen, but I didn't think he'd be back here so soon."

"He didn't deserve this," Havoc rasped thickly, close to tears, "He didn't deserve any of it. None of those soldiers did."

"No. They didn't," Maes agreed quietly after a moment, his shoulders sagging. He squeezed Havoc's shoulder hard, hesitating only briefly before speaking his next words; "I'm trying to get him into therapy. He's resisting at the moment... but we'll get him what he needs."

Havoc swallowed hard and nodded, lowering his eyes back down to his paperwork, looking unconvinced. On the other side of the room, Fuery took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Hawkeye was pretending that she wasn't listening, choosing instead to stack the papers on her desk, but Maes could see that her hands were shaking.

"I... I should follow him," Maes began after allowing a brief, lamenting stretch of silence to fill the office, "I don't think he's ready to give this report, in spite of what he says."

Mustang's staff murmured a soft, cheerless agreement and Maes straightened himself, striding toward the door with as much confidence as he could muster.

"Take care of him..." Hawkeye whispered as Maes moved past her out into the hallway. The Major did not turn around. He could hear the strain of grief in her voice, but if he turned and saw that she had tears in her eyes... if even rock-hard, level-head Hawkeye was overwhelmed by Roy's shattered mind... if even _she_ was beginning to think that he was too far gone to be saved... then all hope in Maes would die and he couldn't let that happen.

Hope was all he had left to depend on.

"Roy! Wait up!" Maes called to the man's retreating back at the far end of the hallway. With a loud sigh, Roy paused and waited for Maes to catch up with him.

The two of them walked down the hallway together toward the other end of the Headquarters building, doing the best they could to ignore the startled gaping of their co-workers as they absorbed Roy's battered appearance. Roy had never been a particularly vain man, but Maes could tell that the staring bothered him... not because he had lost some of his good looks to injury and starvation, but because of the pity he saw in the eyes of his colleagues. Maes strode beside him with his head held high, meeting their shocked gazes squarely as if daring them to keep gawking.

"So," Maes began a little awkwardly, "I hear you scared Havoc half to death."

Roy shrugged offhandly, not an easy feat to accomplish while using crutches.

"Let me guess: you don't want to talk about it, right?" Maes sighed acidly.

"...Don't be an asshole, Maes," Roy muttered, sounding surprisingly wounded, "It's hard enough."

Shame flooded Maes immediately and he mentally kicked himself for using such a blatantly aggressive tone. As if Roy really needed to be reprimanded like that right now.

"You're right. I'm sorry," Maes said sincerely, "I'm just frustrated."

"You think I'm not? You think I _like_ the way that everyone looks at me? You think I _like _how my staff watches me as if they think I'm going to shatter into a million pieces if they say or do the wrong thing? Do you think I like knowing that they're absolutely right?"

"Roy..."

"Don't deny it. Don't you dare fucking deny it. You know it's true. I'm scared of fucking _cigarettes_, Maes! I'm scared of everything!" Roy spat, sounding disgusted with himself, "And the look on Havoc's face... Hawkeye can't even look at me."

"...You only just got out of the hospital the day before yesterday. You can't expect to be all better just because you're back at home. You still have a lot of healing to do, it's going to take time..."

Roy bit his lip and turned his face away a little.

"You really shouldn't be in here today. It's too soon, Roy." Maes told him bracingly.

"You don't have to tell me. I realized that before I even got out of the car," Roy replied bitingly, but then he sighed and seemed to wither a little, "I thought I was better. I _felt_ better. Maybe I've just been fooling myself."

"You _are_ better, you're just not—"

"Ed thinks I'm insane."

That stopped Maes. "He_ said _that?"

"You think I am, too."

Maes gaped at him, "I never said that I thought you were insane!"

"I'm not crazy."

"I know that! I said that you need therapy and I stand by that, but that does _not _mean that you're insane! Is that what Ed told you?"

"I asked if he thought that there was something wrong with me—like you do—and he said yes."

"Roy, that doesn't mean—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Maes clenched his jaw, trying hard not to get irritated. "We _need_ to talk about this."

"...I know."

"Then talk to me!"

Roy stopped walking and turned to face Maes, looking him straight in the eye for the first time during their conversation. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again and swallowed before turning away and heading toward the huge set of double doors that served as the entry to the Fuhrer's office. Lieutenant Beal was standing outside, calmly watching their approach.

"We'll talk later." Roy said finally, "I have to give this report now and that's plaguing my mind enough as it is; I don't need this shit right now to make it worse, okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah, okay," Maes conceded, "...but I think you should let me take you home after this."

Roy gave no response at first, but then he nodded. He knew that Maes was right, no matter how hard he was trying to be stoic.

Beal greeted them both warmly as they approached and Roy even went so far as to clasp the man's arm in a brotherly way. Beal and Maes shared a huge, encouraged grin behind Roy's back to see the man make such a caring—albeit brief—display of physical contact without fear or even a second thought.

"Good to see you, Colonel," Beal said, still smiling, "Although I'm sure that we both wish that it was under different circumstances..."

Roy gave a soft, bitter laugh to show that he felt the same way.

"I'm surprised that they called us in so soon," Beal continued wonderingly, "I mean, you _just_ got out of the hospital and I've only been out for a week or so... It's a little strange that they moved up the meeting, don't you think?"

"Strange indeed." Roy murmured, shooting Maes a significant glance. So Roy had not told Beal that he was the one who had requested the date change... Interesting.

The three men talked amiably for a while about various lighthearted subjects, but Maes could see that both Beal and Roy were jittery with nerves. Maes didn't know Beal well enough to say one way or another, but he knew that Roy never got nervous before a report... not outwardly, anyway. Of course, it was entirely understandable in this case, but it was still unsettling to see Roy so agitated, chewing his lip and creating tiny sparks as he rubbed his gloved fingers together.

"Roy, maybe you should take off the gloves..." Maes suggested warily. Roy looked stricken for a moment, but Maes plowed on, "At least until the meeting is over. I don't think the Fuhrer would take kindly to you making sparks in his office."

Roy looked at Maes for a moment then turned to Beal. Beal shrugged noncommittally, "He's probably right. Just put them in your pocket."

The Colonel hesitated, clenching his jaw for a moment before moving to pull off his gloves unhappily.

Maes could have kissed Beal right then. Sure, Maes had suggested that Roy take his gloves off, but he hadn't really expected the man to listen. Coming from Beal, on the other hand, the same suggestion was made a little less frightening. Beal had spoken his words evenly as if he was not aware of the Colonel's obsessive compulsion, although Maes knew for a fact that he was. Beal was not surprised or bothered by Roy's nervous tick: it did not intimidate him or make him feel awkward in any way. Beal seemed to be the kind of person who rolled with the punches, even if he had absolutely no idea what was going on. Frogs could fall from the sky and all Beal would do is look up and remark, "Interesting weather, eh?"

Also, Beal had seen Roy at his worst and Roy had seen the same of Beal: Maes didn't think that there could ever be anything completely taboo between them.

Roy shoved his gloves into his pockets then looked down at his hands. The pads of his thumbs were red and inflamed, rubbed raw by the ignition cloth. Roy's middle fingers were even worse, looking as if they had been bleeding not too long ago.

Maes was about to comment but instead he held his peace: Roy did not need to be reminded of the damage that he was doing to himself, especially when he swore that he really was trying to stop.

The door to the Fuhrer's office opened and all three men immediately stood at attention.

"The Fuhrer will see you now, sirs." said the secretary, her voice cool and calm like still waters. Roy clenched his jaw, then mustered a convincing smile and flashed it to her.

"Thank you, Miss Douglas," he said graciously, giving her a tiny bow. She did not smile back, but turned and flowed gracefully back into the room. Roy moved to follow her, glancing back at Maes as he crossed the threshold.

"I'll wait here for you." Maes promised him quietly. Roy nodded and then he and Beal filed into the room, Miss Douglas closing the door behind them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**((A/N: We're in the home stretch here, people... only a few more chapters to go! Prepare for hard-core angsting. I probably won't update until next weekend because I have some school stuff I should be doing, so be patient with me.))**


	12. Shut Up

Major General Hakuro stood beside the Fuhrer's desk, back straight and head held high.

It was good to be back in Central. The uprising in Lior had finally been quelled, the remaining people guarded by military police in case anyone got any funny ideas about rallying again... but that seemed unlikely. Things were finally starting to die down, so the General and most of his troops had been sent home with their victory. There had been very few casualties after Hakuro's troops followed the Liorans north.

The same could not be said for Colonel Mustang's troops within the actual city.

It was completely inexcusable that barely more than a fourth of Mustang's men had come out of the struggle. Hakuro was a little fuzzy on the details, but he thought that he could safely assume that Mustang had been sent into Lior with at _least_ three hundred good soldiers... there was absolutely no reason for him to have been so badly defeated. Hakuro himself had had only five hundred soldiers, and the quarry he was pursuing was more than twice as big as Mustang's.

Mustang was a good soldier and Hakuro generally liked him, but the weakness he showed in Lior was nothing short of unspeakable. Again, Hakuro had only been back in Central for two days and had only been vaguely briefed on Mustang's situation... but Hakuro was outraged with Mustang's failure and only morbid curiosity made him willing to give the man the benefit of a doubt.

The Fuhrer shifted a little in his seat as two figures entered the office; Lieutenant Beal followed by a man Hakuro did not recognize. The second man limped forward on a pair of crutches, looking surprisingly stately in spite of his handicap. He and Beal stood in front of the Fuhrer's desk and gave low bows of greeting.

"Good morning Fuhrer. General." the limping man said.

Hakuro drew in a low gasp, only then realizing that the man standing before him was, in fact, Roy Mustang. But, god, the man hardly looked like himself... He looked smaller and paler, his eyes impossibly dark and sunken in his thinned face. Still-healing scars flecked his cheeks and brow and it was clear that he was in some pain: his eyes were over-bright with fatigue and seemed to hold a purposefully blank, withdrawn quality that squeezed Hakuro's heart.

What the hell had happened to him? No one had said anything about Mustang being injured this badly...

Mustang heard Hakuro's gasp and shot him a wary, self-conscious look, trying to stand a little more erectly in spite of his need to lean on his crutches. He gave a stiff salute and, after hesitating for a moment, Lieutenant Beal did the same... but his salute was left-handed.

A startled kind of ire touched Hakuro at this sign of disrespect, but then he slowly realized that the man really had no other option: his right hand was gone, leaving the cuff of his uniform deflated and empty. The General's stomach churned and he turned his gaze to the Fuhrer. What the fuck had happened in Lior...?

"At ease, gentlemen," the Fuhrer bade, seeming as if he didn't notice the dire state that these two men were in, "I believe you have a long overdue report to give."

"Yes, sir," Mustang said and, with admirable detachment, he launched into his report without the slightest hesitation. The Lieutenant added information here and there, but the report was mostly given by the Colonel.

At first, Hakuro couldn't believe his ears as he listened to Mustang speak. Surely the man was mistaken... surely he had not been sent in with only _sixty_ troops to call upon... but then he realized that Mustang was speaking terrible truths. The man didn't speak them bitterly; he was not pointing fingers... just stating facts in a way that made the General's blood turn cold.

The Fuhrer listened quietly, his face like stone; none of this was a surprise to him.

And then, for the first time ever in his distinguished career, Hakuro began to doubt the military in which he served.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It all happened as if Roy were on autopilot. He'd talk for a while, confirming what some of the other soldiers had already told the Fuhrer about the insurgence, then he'd answer questions for a bit:

Yes.

No.

Eight.

Dahveed Jenkins.

Yes, sir.

I'm not sure.

Roy was speaking and interacting with the Fuhrer, but he wasn't really there. His mind was elsewhere in a thick grey cloud, quietly whispering _Iodine: halogen; atomic mass of one twenty-six point nine zero four four seven. Xenon: noble gas; atomic mass of one thirty-one point two nine three six..._ to himself inside of his own head. It was equally distracting and comforting.

"When did Jenkins flee the city?"

"I'm not certain, sir," Roy told Bradley without feeling, "I was unconscious at the time."

Beal kept looking over at Roy searchingly. What did he want? Roy was giving a more-or-less accurate report. Sure, he'd left out some details... okay, _a lot_ of details... but the Fuhrer didn't need to know everything; only what directly pertained to the military. There were some things—some dark, heart-gripping things—that Roy did not feel the need to vocalize here.

Worse than the looks he was getting from Beal, though, were the looks he was getting from General Hakuro. He man looked positively ill, his face draining of color as Roy spoke of what had happened in Lior. Roy could tell that the man was absolutely horrified to hear that he'd been sent in with so few men, and had then been denied back up... but still, any good leader probably would have still made it out with more than seventeen of his men still alive. A good leader would not have let his boys die. Hakuro probably could have done it. _He_ could have been victorious where Roy had failed.

_(You worthless son of a bitch.)_

_...Barium: alkaline earth metal; atomic mass of one thirty-two point three two seven seven..._

"Did he and his followers give any clue as to where they might have gone? We've captured Jenkins, but some of his henchmen are still unaccounted for and he's not talking."

"I could make him talk." Beal said icily, his teeth bared.

Roy and General Hakuro both froze at his words, but the Fuhrer pretended not to hear him and continued to look at Roy, waiting for him to speak.

"No... no, sir." Roy stumbled, his soothing inner chant interrupted by Beal's biting outburst, "They never let on about having any other hideouts."

"I see."

The Fuhrer paused as if thinking deeply, his one good eye fixed on Roy, studying him as if he were some kind of curiosity. His gaze was intimidating, to say the least. It sent a chill down Roy's spine and made him feel as if the man could see more than was humanly possible. His dark eye was penetrating and bold and every second that Roy stood under his gaze he felt a little bit more vulnerable. He felt like an injured rabbit in the middle of a ring of wolves, trembling as they stalked closer inch by frightening inch.

(_You coward. He sees how worthless you are. He KNOWS_.)

_Shut up. He doesn't know anything..._

_(He knows what we did to you. He can see it. He can smell it on you... He smells your shame.)_

_Shut up!_

Bradley was talking again, but Roy's mind was too full of other words to pay much attention. Beal was looking at him again, watching. And Hakuro... _fucking Hakuro_... Roy could see the disgust on his face, staring down at Roy as if he were something to be stepped on, to be crushed underfoot. He could have done better. HE could have saved his men. He thought that Roy was scum. A monster. A murderer. A WHORE.

_No. No... you're being paranoid. He doesn't think that... _

_(He knows that you let them die. He's going to strip you of rank. He's going to throw you out of the military...)_

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

Roy's heart was beating fast. Fast, fast, too fucking fast. He needed to calm down. It was all in his head. His head, his head. All in his head. He just needed to focus on something else. Subconciously, he started rubbing his thumb and middle finger together, not even noticing that he wasn't wearing his gloves anymore. He just needed that sensation, that friction, that controlled pain to help him think more clearly so that he could focus on the Fuhrer's words.

"—and some of the other higher-ups feel very strongly that you should be penalized," the Fuhrer was saying evenly. Next to Roy, Beal made an incredulous sound. "This incident was a harsh blow to us all, and many people want to see you demoted for your failure, Colonel."

"I... understand, sir." Roy managed, his chest constricting even further and his heart beating so hard that he wondered if they could hear it.

"You can't be serious!" Beal shouted suddenly, talking a step forward.

"Be quiet, Lieutenant." Roy whispered sharply, surprised.

"It wasn't his fault!" Beal continued, his voice rising, "None of it was his fault! Surely you can't blame him for_ your_ mista—"

"_Enough_, Beal!" The Colonel barked and the man fell silent. Roy rubbed his fingers together harder, practically digging his thumbnail into the tender flesh of his middle finger. This situation was bad enough without Beal making it worse. Roy turned back to his superiors.

"Forgive my subordinate," Roy said to the Fuhrer, bowing low, "He was only released from the hospital last week and is not fully recovered. He is still very exciteable."

"Hm." said the Fuhrer after a pause, sounding vaguely amused, "Were you not just released from the hospital as well? Only two days ago, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Roy replied, shooting Beal a disapproving glance as he straightened himself, "But I have more self-control than my Lieutenant."

"Do you agree with him? Do you feel that you are not to blame for what happened in Lior?"

God, what a question. The Colonel started to reply, but the words died in his throat and his heart started pounding so hard that he thought he was going to faint. Beal was seething next to him. Hakuro was pale-faced, clenching his jaw. And the Fuhrer... the Fuhrer was just waiting for Roy to speak, his fingers steepled with an unnerving sort of calm. How the FUCK could he be so calm?

_(Be honest, killer. You know what you did.)_

"I... I take full responsibility." Roy rasped finally.

Beside him, Beal closed his eyes tightly as if in a great deal of pain.

"Commendable, Mustang." Bradley said dryly, "I know that you did all that you could to complete the mission, but it wasn't enough. I suppose that I am partially to blame; I never should have sent a Colonel to do the job of a General."

And with those words, Roy felt something die within him.

Maybe Roy hadn't really... _really_ believed that it truly had been his fault until he heard it from the Fuhrer's own mouth. All those bodies... all that blood... all those stains hadn't _really_ set in until now because there had still been that hope in the back of his chaotically spinning mind that told him "_it wasn't your fault_."

But now here it was, out in the open. Roy had failed. He wasn't good enough and people had _died_ because of that. The world spun around him and it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. God, he _was_ a murderer. A failure. A demon. A stupid, worthless fuck-toy that didn't even deserve to be alive. And he had known... he had known all along that this was all that he was, but he had still hoped that...

But no. No, of course not. How pathetic he was for thinking that he could be redeemed... How naïve.

"Oh..." Hakuro breathed suddenly, "Colonel, your hand..."

Roy looked up at him, violently snatched away from his self-loathing thoughts, then looked down at his hand.

Blood was dripping a steady beat from his slick fingertips, falling to the carpet below and staining it with dark spots. He raised his hand to his face and stared at it, watching the scarlet wetness seep from the ragged tip of his middle finger. The bright, searing color had been smeared starkly across his pale hand by his rhythmic rubbing, filling the creases and scars on his palm with sharp lines of red.

Red like sunset.

Red like embers.

Red like the life pouring from Private Zane's eye socket, flowing onto the filthy floor, blossoming outward around his ruined head and staining his beautiful blond hair with crimson sin.

_(All of it, spilled for you. Aren't you grateful?)_

_Oh... god..._

Bradley was talking again, had been talking for a while. How long had Roy been staring at his hand? A long time. Too long. He was trembling, trying to breathe in the blood-tainted air around him, but it stuck in his throat and made him want to gag.

_(Look at it! Look at the blood spilling from little Zane...!)_

_Shut up._

_(Look at the expression on his face!)_

_Shut up!_

The Fuhrer was talking, asking questions. Was it the Fuhrer? Maybe it was Hakuro. Fuck, what was he saying? Pay attention. _Pay attention_.

_(Look what you did to him! Look what you did to them all, you worthless little fuck!)_

_SHUT UP, SHUT UP!_

"...I'm sorry. What... what did you say...?" Roy managed to ask, raising his gaze back up to the Fuhrer's face.

The Fuhrer stayed silent, eyeing the Colonel blankly as if suddenly lost for words. He and Hakuro exchanged a glance and the General cleared his throat.

"...Perhaps we should conclude this meeting at another time." Hakuro said, his voice wavering as he looked at Roy. "You are dismissed, gentlemen."

A little thrown off by the abrupt dismissal, Roy didn't move. He continued looking up at Hakuro, trying to understand why the man looked so... _sad_. Why was Hakuro watching him like that?

"Colonel..." Beal said quietly, gently tugging on the sleeve of Roy's uniform like an insistent child, "Come on, sir."

Beal bowed low to his superiors, his face pale and his only remaining hand hovering very close to Roy's arm; not touching him but still there. After a pause, Roy bowed as well and followed Beal out of the office, feeling two distinct gazes boring into his back.

His heart was still beating entirely to hard and he was glad to be back out in the hallway. Once Beal closed the door to the office, Roy leaned himself against the wall and closed his eyes, sighing out a relieved curse. His mind was jumping everywhere, his thoughts dotted intermittently with the bloody images of his sin. Private Zane. Private Hurst. Private Brannon, Velasco, Haber, Gordan, Harker, Westfahl, Caldwell, Lindor, Stanton, Green, Beal...

Beal.

Beal was talking.

Roy opened his eyes again, absorbing his subordinate's drawn, concerned face. What had he just said? Think. He'd just asked questions. Why was everyone always asking him questions...?

"Are you okay?" Beal was asking worriedly, "Colonel, why did you do that?"

"Do what?" Roy said when he could collect his thoughts long enough to form a response.

"Shout at the Fuhrer like that..."

Roy paused, furrowing his brow. "I didn't shout at the Fuhrer. When did I shout?"

"You told him to shut up, Colonel."

Roy's insides clenched and went cold.

"I didn't say that."

_(He knows. They all know, now.)_

"Yes, you did."

_Shut up!_

"...I wasn't talking to him," the Colonel said quietly, pretending that he wasn't horrified to hear that he'd spoken those words aloud in front of the Fuhrer, pretending that he wasn't sick to realize that he had spoken aloud _to the voice in his head_ for the second time. He turned from Beal and pushed himself away from the wall, stalking dazedly down the hallway toward where he could see Maes talking with some of his subordinates.

"Then who were you talking to...?" Beal asked in a near-whisper, almost as if he really didn't want to know.

"No one. I wasn't talking to anyone. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Colonel..."

"I'm not crazy, Beal," Roy said sharply, trying to conceal his desperation and failing. Something was happening. Something was happening inside Roy's head. There was screaming, pained voices raised over the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. There was the smell of blood and of rotting meat and of cigarettes. And he was seeing things... pictures, terrible pictures... everything red and black and grey and red and white and red and red and red and...

"No one said that you were crazy..." Beal said, his eyes wide and uncertain, one arm still reaching hesitantly forward.

"You're _thinking_ it!" Roy spat, stopping in his tracks and rounding on the slightly taller man. Beal balked and took a step backward, a confused kind of fear crawling across his face. "I see how you look at me, how you all look at me...! You think that I don't _know_...?"

There was a long, breathless pause. Finally, Beal rasped:

"Colonel, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing... I'm fine. I'm always fine." Roy replied, noticing that he was speaking very quickly but unable to do anything about it. He could smell his own blood. He could feel it dripping from his hand and staining the handle of his crutch, staining everything he touched, corrupting it.

_I taint everything..._

_(Yes, you do. Say it. Tell me how you tainted them all. Tell me that you killed them.)_

"Colonel, you're trembling... tell me what's wrong..." Beal begged, his voice bordering on panic.

_I killed them._

_(Yes.)_

_Oh god, I killed them all..._

Roy stared up at Beal and his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he raised one hand up and put it to his forehead.

"I... I don't know," Roy admitted in a frightened hush, "I don't know what's wrong..."

_(Ha, ha, ha! Like hell, you don't.)_

"Colonel Mustang?"

Roy and Beal both jumped slightly at the voice coming up from behind them. Roy looked over his shoulder and cursed under his breath, straightening himself up as much as he could as he saw General Hakuro approaching them.

"May I help you, General?" Roy asked, mildly surprised that he was managing to keep his voice so even in spite of the fact that he was shaking like a leaf.

Hakuro stopped and considered his words carefully, his eyes roaming Roy's face in a worried, disconcerted way.

"I just..." he began, but then faltered. He took a breath and clenched his jaw for a moment before continuing, "I didn't know that you only had sixty men. That was so wrong on so many levels and you should not be blamed for what happened. This was a mistake... If I had known that you needed reinforcements, I would have sent them in a heartbeat. I just wanted you to know that, even if it means nothing to you now."

"...Thank you," Roy said when he found the words amongst the swirling mess of his jumbled thoughts. Why was Hakuro saying this? Was it pity? Roy didn't need his fucking pity. He didn't need anything from him. Not now, at least. It was too late. The blood had been spilled, the lives had been lost, and souls had been torn asunder.

There was nothing left.

It was over.

Done.

_You're too late, you son of a bitch. Where were you? Where was your guidance on the battlefield? Where were you when they sent a Colonel in to do the job of a FUCKING General? Did you hear him say that? Did you? Did you did you did you? Didn't it make you sick? Ha, ha, ha! Where WERE you, motherfucker, when my men were dying? When I was dying? Do you know what it's like? Have you ever even tasted your own blood?_

Roy was shaking hard now, the force of his rapid pulse slamming into him with every frantic beat and stealing the air from his laboring lungs. The corners of his vision were fuzzy and black and his screaming, whirling, lurching, blood-spattered mind seemed to be playing on the border of explosion. He couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't. He... no... No... No. No. No! No! NO! _NO! NO! NONONONONONONO! Please, god, make it stop!_

Hakuro's kind eyes widened a little and he stole an uncomfortable glance at Beal before turning back to Roy.

"Are you all right, son?" he asked softly, reaching forward as if to grip Roy's arm consolingly.

_Don't touch me. God, don't let him touch me. Not now. Not ever. If he touches me... If he so much as TOUCHES me, I'm going to..._

Hakuro's hand landed very gently on Roy's shoulder.

The hysterical man stiffened under his touch.

And then there was nothing.

**((A/N: hahah... cliffhanger. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon, but it might not happen for another week or so. Forgive me.))**


	13. Trust

**((A/N:** **To make up for my lack of updates, this chapter's a little bit longer than usual. There are probably going to be two more chapters after this one and I'm nowhere close to finishing them. One again, forgive me and my slowness.))**

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes saw him fall.

The Major was at the other end of the hall talking to Scieszka, but he still saw it as if it were happening in slow motion.

Hakuro reached forward to Roy in a sympathetic, tender way that betrayed the fact that he, like Maes, was a doting father outside the office. It was a gentle, completely innocent touch, but Roy stiffened under it as if the man's hands were made of knives. Roy's body went completely rigid, teeth clenched and head thrown back as if he were caught in some sort of epileptic fit. His dark, frightened eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped his crutches, pitching sideways in a dead faint.

The General swooped down and caught Roy before he could hit the ground, pulling him up and propping him against the wall.

"Easy now, son!" Hakuro soothed frantically, trying to keep Roy more-or-less on his feet.

Maes was already pounding down the hallway at top speed, his heart lodged uncomfortably in his throat. Hakuro looked over his shoulder at the Major as Lieutenant Beal moved forward and started patting Roy's colorless cheek in an attempt to rouse him from unconsciousness.

Roy's eyelids fluttered and a soft moan escaped from his white lips, his brow furrowing as he visibly tried to fight off the swoon. He opened his eyes dazedly and looked up. Almost immediately he jerked himself backward away from Hakuro, a fragile, terrified sound issuing from his throat as he pressed himself back against the wall.

"_Don't touch me!" _he shrieked, cowering away from both Hakuro and Beal.

"General, let me." Maes pleaded softly as he approached, gently removing Hakuro's hand from Roy's shoulder and pushing himself between them. Maes backed up a little, still holding Roy up against the wall to keep him from toppling over, but touching him as little as possible.

Roy's wide, red-rimmed eyes flashed away from Hakuro and landed on Maes. For a moment Roy just stared, breathing hard as if he'd just run miles, as if he was still running. Maes backed away from him a little further, afraid that his close proximity was intensifying Roy's terror.

Roy gasped as Maes pulled away, reaching up and grabbing the front of the Major's uniform with bloodied hands and jerking him closer. Roy pressed himself against Maes, making tiny, broken sounds that vividly reminded Maes of the sounds Elysia made when she was trying not to cry. Maes leaned down against him, curling around his trembling body and holding him, trying futilely to protect him from his inner demons.

"Roy, what happened? What's wrong?" Maes whispered to him urgently, his lips brushing the top of Roy's dark head.

Roy just clutched Maes and shook, not saying anything. Maes could feel the man's heartbeat, hard and uneven against his chest. Roy's breathing was harsh and labored: each inhalation a gasp, each exhalation a shudder.

Maes raised his head and looked at Beal. "What happened?"

"I don't know, Major... The meeting just really upset him." Beal rasped, distraught, "I don't know what to do..."

Maes glanced at Hakuro, but the wizened General looked even more lost than Beal, his face blanched to the color of old bones. Maes turned away from them—useless, the both of them—and leaned his face down close to Roy's again.

"I'm gonna take you home, okay? Just calm down."

After a few beats, Roy nodded and Maes felt a little thrill of relief. At least he was responding. Maes needed to get him out of here. Clearly, something was very wrong. Roy was borderline hysterical, acting eerily similar to how he'd been the night he'd first awoken. He was having some kind of psychotic episode, some violent, breathless sort of panic attack. Roy was a fool for coming in to work today and Maes was even more of a fool for letting him stay. It was far too soon for him to be around so many people and it had been a deep mistake to let him give that fucking report.

"It's my fault." Roy rasped suddenly against Maes' chest, shoulders quaking. "It's my fault... It's all my fault. I killed them, Maes. All of them!"

"No... No, Roy. It wasn't your fault..." Maes tried to soothe, holding Roy even more tightly and turning to pin Hakuro with a withering glare. "Is that what the Fuhrer said to him?"

"Not... in those words, exactly..." Hakuro said, sounding deeply ashamed for the part he had played in all of this. Maes gritted his teeth in anger, but then fought it back. He had more pressing matters to deal with.

"Okay, Roy, come on," Maes coaxed gently, pulling Roy away from the wall and starting to guide him down the hallway. Maes wrapped one arm around Roy to support him as he limped forward without his crutches, clinging to Maes both for balance and for sanity. Maes had his other hand raised up, resting against Roy's cheek and blocking his view of the startled people who watched them walk by. "That's it, I've got you."

Lieutenant Beal retrieved Roy's crutches from the floor and followed their slow procession, leaving Hakuro alone by the Fuhrer's door looking ill and completely disillusioned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Car. Car. Car. How did he get to the car? He remembered the hallway. He remembered arms around him, remembered wanting to be absorbed by those arms, taken away. Yes. He remembered Maes...

_Maes?_

"I'm here, Roy. It's okay, just relax. Everything's fine."

It didn't sound like everything was fine. Maes' voice was clipped and wavering. He was scared. Even in his current state, Roy could hear the fear and anxiety in his best friend's voice. Why was he scared? What was going on? Did he see it, too? The blood, the blood smeared all over the dashboard, all over the windshield, blocking out the morning sun with a thin sheet of deepest red? Did he see it, did he see it?

"I don't see anything. There's nothing there, Roy, I promise. Shh... it's okay."

_(Ha! It's not okay. He's lying. Do you really believe him?)_

_SHUT UP!_

_(How can he NOT see the blood? How can he ignore your sin?)_

_SHUT UP, SHUT UP! I'm SORRY, I didn't mean for it to happen this way! I tried so hard to keep them alive. I did. I tried. I did everything I could to—_

_(It wasn't enough. You aren't good enough.)_

—_keep them alive. There were too many of them and too few of us, there was nothing I could do. I tried, I tried. Oh, god. There's so much blood. It's everywhere. I smell it. I taste it. I—_

_(What did Private Brannon taste like?)_

—_hear it, pounding in my fucking head. I hear it. I hear it all. All the screams and the violence and the whispered threats and the sound of glass tearing skin. I hear the desert winds and the crunching of bones and the sound of gunfire—and that sound just after the gunfire, that little tiny sound of flesh collapsing against flesh as their heads cave in—and the sounds of breathing and my men crying out at night crying for their mothers crying for their wives and children oh god I've taken them all away and it's over but it's not over it is never never never over there is always blood anger sorrow pain guts infection screaming weeping writhing raping whispering cutting killing dying there's death here all around I reek of it it's in my skin in my hair in my clothes it's splattered on the floor all green and pink and red like exposed intestines dragging across the ground slick slippery with rot with decay and all I want is—_

_(You aren't making any sense, madman.)_

—_for someone to make it stop._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He was calming down a little. Or, at least, Maes liked to think that he was.

Roy was sitting in the passenger's seat of the car while Maes drove. Maes glanced over at him every few seconds and kept one hand firmly on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. Roy was bent forward in the seat, his head down and his hands desperately clutching fistfuls of his raven hair, digging his nails into his scalp. He was trembling so badly that it was almost like he was vibrating—a thrumming personification of terror and misery.

Roy's breathing had slowed from near-hyperventilation to a lurching, sick sort of gasping that made the man's thin back heave with each breath. He spoke every now and then. Occasionally, he even made sense. Mostly, though, he was just mumbling to himself, his voice so low and warped by fear that Maes couldn't understand him half the time. The words Maes did understand were broken and disjointed, begging for forgiveness or insisting that Maes see the invisible blood that was apparently splattered all over the inside of the car.

"We're almost there, man. Shh... you're okay." Maes crooned, rubbing Roy's shoulder and trying very hard to keep the terror from his own voice.

"It's my fault," Roy gasped, "my fault, my fault...

"Don't say that. It wasn't you..."

"And I didn't even go to their funerals!"

"You were catatonic! You couldn't be expected to—"

"I missed _Ed's_ funeral!"

It took Maes several beats to fully absorb what Roy had just said, but when the full meaning of the words slammed into him it felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest, painfully knocking the air from his lungs.

"Roy..." Maes said in a choked whisper, "Ed is still alive."

There was a long, suffocating pause.

Roy sat up slowly and looked at Maes, a hurt kind of confusion etching itself into his features.

"You're lying... how could you lie to me about something like this...?"

"I'm not lying, Roy... You saw him yesterday. You spoke with him. He came over to your apartment, don't you remember...?"

Roy stopped and stared at Maes searchingly, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth, trying to remember. Maes could see his mind working hard, struggling to function past his terror, then:

"Oh god..." he breathed finally, curling inward on himself again and burying his face in his hands, "Oh _god_, you're right... what the _fuck_ is wrong with me?"

"You're just stressed out... you have a lot to deal with right now and going into the office just made it worse." Maes said softly as he parked the car outside of Roy's apartment, "Just relax and calm down. You're just having a panic attack, but it'll pass..."

"What the hell do you know?" Roy replied petulantly, his words muffled by his blood-encrusted hands.

Maes clenched his jaw and turned off the engine. "Let's just go inside. Come on, I'll help you."

"...I think I left my crutches." Roy said a little dazedly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his gloves. He slid them on carefully, wincing as the rough fabric dragged over his damaged fingertips.

"They're in the back seat. I'll get them."

Without much ado Maes got out of the car, grabbed the crutches, and helped Roy inside. Roy kept one hand on Maes' arm, almost as if he was afraid that Maes would disappear if he didn't keep the contact. Maes wasn't completely sure how he felt about this. Was it good that Roy was allowing Maes to touch him? True, he'd been making little steps toward getting over his phobia for the past few days, but _this_... He was clinging, frightened, wanting Maes to protect him. It was entirely unsettling.

Maes wondered briefly if he should call the hospital. He knew that Roy would kill him if he did, but what if Maes couldn't get him to calm down? What if it just got worse? Sure, Roy seemed to be doing a little better at the moment, but what if...?

Well, if it came to that, Maes would make the call. For the moment though, he supposed that he should just wait to see what happened.

Roy finally let go of Maes and limped over to the other side of the room. Maes watched him warily, but stayed silent as he lowered himself onto Roy's couch. Roy reached up to a shelf on the back wall and pulled down a bottle of amber-colored liquid. With a trembling hand, he pulled out the crystal stopper and poured a generous splash into a glass on a lower shelf, the mouth of the decanter clinking against the glass unsteadily.

"Do you really think that's a good idea...?" Maes asked tentatively, watching the man raise the glass and toss back two quick mouthfuls of the scotch.

"Yes, I do." he muttered, shakily pouring another dollop into his glass and spilling some onto the floor, "I think it's the best idea I've had all fucking day."

"You're going to make yourself sick..."

"I'm already sick, Maes."

Maes chewed his lip, his insides aching. The last thing Roy needed was to be intoxicated, but it seemed as if that was his goal. True, it would certainly calm him down, but it would also depress him even further. Then again, that might not be so bad as long as he was calm. All this stress could not be good for his heart _or_ his mind.

Roy emptied the glass and set it back on the shelf, looking as if his was considering filling it again. Instead he turned away from it and looked back at Maes. His eyes were red-rimmed and wide, full of some sharp, unnamable emotion that made Maes' skin crawl.

"I can't live like this," Roy said, the words lurching from his lips as if they were incredibly difficult to say, "I can't be this way."

"I know it's hard..." Maes said quietly, getting to his feet and moving over to his friend again, "But it won't always be like this."

"How do you know that? How do you know that I won't be stuck as a hysterical wreck for the rest of my life? I can't even do my job...!"

"You're expecting too much too soon," Maes said, putting a hand on each of Roy's shoulders and squeezing lovingly.

Roy sighed harshly and inclined his head, resting it against Maes' chest, clearly fighting to swallow back the almost tangible helplessness that he felt. Maes closed his eyes tightly and moved a hand to the back of Roy's head, mussing his hair paternally. There was a brief, sad silence between them until Maes ventured to break it:

"Have you eaten today?" the taller man asked, moving his hand down to the base of Roy's neck. The muscles there were knotted and Maes rubbed them gently with his fingertips, hoping to loosen the tenseness.

Roy shook his head.

"...Did you eat anything after I left yesterday?"

"No."

"So, you're telling me that you haven't eaten since before you were discharged from the hospital?"

"...Don't lecture me, Maes. I'm doing the best I can."

"I know... I know you are." Maes sighed, "But you have to eat, Roy..."

Roy grunted noncommittally and Maes sighed again, softer this time.

"I don't know what to do..." Roy admitted quietly, "I just want everything to go back to normal... and I'm starting to think that it never will."

"Come on, Roy..." Maes said sadly, "You'll be okay. Just... just think of how it was after you got back from Ishbal. You were a wreck then, too, but you got over it... You healed. It just takes time."

Roy stiffened, his neck muscles bunching under Maes' hand. Slowly, Roy lifted his head and stared at Maes blankly. Then his face broke into a wide, frightening grin and a short, chilling laugh erupted from his throat.

"Oh, Maes. How little you know about me, to think that I'm over Ishbal. I will _never_ be over Ishbal."

"God, Roy, I don't mean to say that you're _entirely_ over it..." Maes conceded, mentally berating himself for such poor choice of words, "I know that it still haunts you and I know that it always will, but you were able to move past it. You overcame it."

Roy gave another little laugh, but didn't say anything.

"Come on. Just sit with me. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

"What do you want me to say?" Roy asked acidly, shrugging out from under Maes' hands, "How is talking going to help either of us? What good will it do?"

"Just tell me what's bothering you and we'll try to work it out..." Maes said, realizing how completely lame and inadequate his words were even as they left his lips, "Let me help you..."

"You've already saved me, Maes!" Roy exploded, suddenly angry, "I don't need you to _keep_ saving me! I don't need you to save me again and again every fucking day! I don't need your help anymore! Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"...I just want to talk, Roy," Maes said quietly, taken off-guard by the outburst. "I just want to help you. You _need_ help."

"Fine!" Roy barked, rounding on Maes with wide, fiery eyes, "Fine, then let's talk! What do you want to know? Do you want to know what it's like to go for almost two weeks without sleep? You start hallucinating a little, did you know that? Do you want to know what human flesh tastes like? Do you want to know what it's like to be terrified because you have no way of knowing whether or not you managed to throw it all back up...?"

"Roy..." Maes whispered, sickened and horrified by the aggressive, manic way that the man was tossing out these gruesome bits of his torture. Maes took a tiny step backward and Roy advanced on him, his lips pulled back in a feral smile.

"What? You wanted me to talk, Maes, so I'm talking!" Roy spat. "Do you want to know what it's like to be raped? To be gang-fucked by a whole crowd of filthy, sweating men in front of your subordinates? How does that thought make you feel? Do you get off on that, Maes?"

"No! Of course not, I just—"

"I'll bet you _do_. Is that why you want me to talk about it, to describe it to you? Is it some sick fantasy of yours...?"

"Roy, stop it!" Maes choked, his stomach turning with disgust and alarm. "You know that isn't true!"

"And you want to know something else? I started _praying _in there, Maes," Roy laughed madly, his sick, humorless words dripping from his lips like poison, "I, the Atheist King! I, the Godless Alchemist! _I_, the man who has been likened to Satan Himself, _prayed_ every night that they would kill me. I yearned for death by the end, Maes; I wanted it so badly. I would have killed myself a million times over if I'd had the means. I guess you're right. It _is_ just like Ishbal."

And there it was. Maes had known that the subject of suicide was going to come up eventually before this was all over, and now here it was out in the open like a terrible secret.

"So... so do you still want it? Do you still want to die?" Maes asked quietly, forcing down the urge to yell and suppressing his frightened, heartbroken anger.

Roy's sick smile widened, his lips curled back in a way that reminded Maes of a fleshless skull. "Every second of every day."

Maes' heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"Were you just not going to ever tell me about this? This is why you need to talk, Roy! Maybe I could help, maybe I could change your mind..."

"How stupid you must be to think that you can just make these thoughts go away." Roy whispered, "How pathetic and naïve you are."

"You can't just give up!" Maes yelled, "You are _not allowed_ to give up! You can get past this... You were already planning it, weren't you...?"

Roy sighed loudly, sounding unspeakably tired. "No, Maes. I said that I _wanted_ to; that doesn't mean that I'm _going _to."

"But you want to. You think about it."

"Yes." Roy said, then raised his eyes and looked at Maes levelly. "And part of me _hates_ you for saving me, because if you hadn't I wouldn't be dealing with this shit now. Because then it really _would_ be over."

Maybe it was all the strain that Maes had been under that morning. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't slept the night before and that the frantic worry on his mind had made his patience a thin and fragile thing. Maybe it was his fear. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was because he actually thought that it would knock some sense into Roy—because it had worked once before... that evening in Roy's study after Ishbal, the day that Maes pledged himself to Roy. Whatever the case, no matter why it happened, it _happened_.

Maes pulled back his fist and struck Roy in the face. Hard.

Roy stumbled back, knocked off balance by the blow. He put his hand over his mouth, feeling the warm blood oozing from his split lip. His eyes flew open wide with a gut-wrenching kind of shock.

There was a long, suffocating pause, then Maes raised his hand to his own mouth in horrified, nauseated self-loathing. They just stared at one another, eyes wide and hand-over-mouth in mirror images of one another as reality sank in and Maes realized the full extent of what he had just done.

The sick anger that had been in Roy's eyes disappeared, and with it died the trust—that thin little shred of trust that Maes had been cultivating, nurturing since Roy's awakening, hoping that it would someday be as strong as it had been before Lior—and in the absence of that trust, terror flooded in.

Once upon a time, a fist to the face was one of the few things that would make Roy Mustang listen to reason. It had worked then. It had grounded him. But now... Roy was not the same person now, and you cannot—you _cannot_—do what Maes had just done to a torture victim, no matter who they used to be.

Roy pulled his hand away from his mouth, looking down at the red drop of blood that dyed the palm of his glove, registering the thin trickle of crimson blossoming from his lip.

He raised his wide, frightened eyes to Maes again and took a step away from him.

"Oh... Oh my god, Roy..." Maes moaned, reaching toward him, "I didn't mean to..."

Roy made a small, panicked sound and moved away again, lurching backward on his crutches.

"Stay away from me." He whispered, his voice quaking.

"Roy, you know I would never hurt you..." Maes pleaded, feeling as if he was going to vomit.

_Oh, you'd never hurt him?_ He chided himself darkly, _Then what the FUCK did you just do?_

"I... I know that. I do, but... I just... I c-can't..." Roy stumbled and then, horribly, he burst into tears. He covered his eyes with one hand and wept, shuddering and crying in a broken, helpless way that even further illustrated his fragility.

With a tiny moan, Maes moved toward him again, wanting nothing more than to collect Roy in his arms and hold him, telling him that everything was going to be okay... whether or not that was true... but Roy flinched, backing away until his back was against the wall. He was shaking hard again, trembling as he had been in the office and gasping out his tears as if he couldn't breathe properly.

"Don't... d-don't, Maes. You're scaring me..." Roy managed, the words plunging a dagger of anguished self-hatred into Maes' chest. "Just leave. Please."

"Roy, I can't leave you like this... I won't hurt you, I promise..."

He took another step forward. Roy had no more ground to retreat to and he knew it, pressing himself harder against the wall. Maes moved closer very slowly as if Roy were a wild animal that he was afraid of spooking.

"Don't come any closer..." Roy rasped and then, to Maes' horror, he raised his gloved hand.

Maes froze. "Roy..."

"Please. Don't." Roy half-sobbed through clenched teeth, as he leveled his hand, aiming at Maes with fingers ready to snap.

"Come on, Roy... I'm trying to help you... " Maes soothed, daring to take another half-step toward his hysterical, suffering friend. "Shh... it's going to be okay..."

"_Please_, Maes!" Roy wept, cowering against the wall and tensing his hand, "Don't make me hurt you... Please, _please_ just go..."

He meant it. Roy was really that terrified, so scared of Maes that he had pulled a weapon on him and was willing to use it if he thought that he had to.

"Okay. Okay, Roy. I'll go." Maes said quietly, backing toward the door.

What else could he do? If he stayed, Roy would fry him and probably end up hurting himself in the process. Roy was terrified out of his mind, caught in the tumult of a psychological breakdown and Maes had just made it a thousand times worse. Maes had hit him. Had just fucking _hit_ his broken, abused best friend.

Roy watched Maes open the door and back out of it slowly, his dark, wild eyes spilling over with tears and his hand shaking.

"Call me at the office later, okay...?" Maes said, his heart shuddering.

"_Go_!"

Maes swallowed and stepped back over the threshold, closing the door firmly. He stood on the doorstep for a few beats, then shoved his hands in his pockets and calmly walked over to the car and got in. He sat there for a few moments blankly, then put the key into the ignition and drove off, blocking out the suppressed part of his mind that was screaming at him to go back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

...Lieutenant _Bell_?

Who the heck was Lieutenant Bell?

Ed had never even heard that name before around the office... but there it was, written in Mustang's surprisingly untidy handwriting:

_I highly encourage you to speak with Lieutenant Bell if you aren't sure about something: I think he'd be more than happy to be involved._

Ed sighed as he shuffled down the hallways of HQ, a little frustrated. He wanted to get started on this project, but he didn't want to do anything until he ran a few things by this Bell person. Maybe some of Mustang's staff would know how to get in contact with him, or maybe Hughes would know...

Speaking of whom: Ed looked up in time to see Major Hughes at the far end of the hallway, disappearing into his office.

"Hey! Major!" Ed called, trotting after him and following him into the office. Hughes looked down at him over his shoulder as Ed appeared in the doorway, then turned away again and went over to his desk.

"What's up, Ed?" he asked, not sounding as if he really cared. There was an empty, hollow quality to his voice that made Ed pause for a moment, watching the Major as he sat on the edge of his desk.

"Not much..." Ed began a little hesitantly, then shrugged it off. Hughes was probably just tired. Ed couldn't imagine how hard it must be for him to be taking care of the Colonel all the time... "Hey, do you know a Lieutenant Bell?"

Hughes frowned, "Bell? No, I don't think so..."

Ed unfolded the stack of papers that Mustang had given him and jabbed a finger at the name with an irritated sigh. "See? Lieutenant Bell. Mustang wants me to talk to him, but I have to _find_ the guy first..."

Hughes looked down at the paper, eyebrows raised. "That says 'Beal', Ed. Not 'Bell'."

Ed returned his gaze to the paper. Oh.

"Mustang's handwriting is sloppy..." Ed defended himself with a sniff, pocketing the papers again.

"His hands were still in splints when he wrote that out," Hughes said with a faint, distant smile, "He kept getting so frustrated... he must have gone through two dozen sheets of paper before he was even halfway satisfied with it..." He laughed quietly, but then his smile trembled and disappeared.

Ed looked up at him warily, his brow knitted with mild concern. Maybe the man was more than just tired... He had that withdrawn, forced air around him of someone who was upset, but trying very hard not to be.

Well, Ed didn't need to guess what the man could possibly be upset about.

"I do know Lieutenant Beal, though. But I'm sure he's gone home for the day..." Hughes said, clearly trying to shake off his melancholy. "He's... a friend of Roy's."

"Ah." Ed said airily, moving to lean casually against the desk next to Hughes. At this close proximity, Ed could discern that the Major was trembling very slightly, just a faint shiver in his biceps and hands. He was also clenching his jaw hard, grinding his teeth and swallowing back his obvious distress in a way that made the muscles in his neck twitch.

Ed bit his lip for a moment, then decided that the only thing he could do was ask.

"So," he began nonchalantly, pretending that he was only vaguely interested, "How is the Colonel doing this morning?"

Hughes raised his gaze back up to Ed's face and Ed gasped audibly at the thrumming, nearly palpable pain that was boiling just behind those moss-colored eyes. There was desperation in those eyes, and anger. There was also a dizzying, nauseating kind of fearful self-hatred, something that Ed had never before seen in Hughes. But, in the middle of all this silent, swirling chaos locked in Hughes' gaze, Ed felt one thing—one frantic, unasked question fighting to escape from the Major:

_What have I done?_

"...Major?" Ed rasped, his stomach churning as cold fear worked its way under his skin. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

"I..." Hughes started, but then his words caught in his throat and choked on them, his shoulders tensed and heaving. He lowered his face into his hands and moaned, "_Goddamn_ me!" as an angry sob forced its way from between his gritted teeth. With a low, mournful whine, Hughes turned to Ed and buried his face against the boy's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and bawling like a child.


	14. Grafittied

Roy watched Maes move out of the door, pale-faced and frightened.

"Call me at the office later, okay...?" Maes said, his voice weak.

"_Go_!" Roy screamed at him.

Maes lowered his eyes and obeyed, closing the door behind him. As the door snapped shut, the room filled to the brim with an awful, gut-twisting kind of silence that slammed into Roy like a cold wave.

Roy stood absolutely still for several beats, then gave a soft moan and lurched into the bathroom. He fumbled for the light-switch and missed, then dropped his crutches, gripped the sides of the sink and doubled over. He vomited harshly into the cold white basin, the dark room reverberating with the sounds of his frightened, anguished sickness. Regurgitated alcohol burned his sinuses as he voided his paltry stomach contents into the sink.

Even after he'd puked everything up, his thin back continued to heave in helpless, sob-like dry retches. He spat the acrid fluid from his mouth and closed his eyes tightly, trying to make his empty stomach cease its queasy spasms and trying to make his heart stop quaking with fear.

_It... It was an accident, right? Maes said that he didn't mean to..._

(_He'll hurt you. He'll kill you._)

_No... Maes wouldn't..._

(_But he did_. _He hit you._)

_...Maes wouldn't Maes wouldn't Maes wouldn't..._

(_But he DID_.)

_Shut up!_

(_He'll do it again, too. You can't trust him. He's a big guy; just imagine what he could do to you_...)

_...Fuck you. You aren't even real..._

(_Then why are you talking to me?)_

Real or not, some part of Roy had to admit that it had a point.

Roy clenched his jaw and ignored the voice, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and wincing as the rough cloth dragged against his split lip. He raised his eyes to his reflection in the mirror above the sink, but in the dark room he could only see a black silhouette of himself, light touching only on the bright wetness of the tears in his eyes. It was a haunting image that sucked the breath from Roy's lungs and made his heart stumble over itself in its rapid beating.

...Maybe this is what everyone else saw. Maybe all that they saw when they looked at Roy was this thin, tear-stained shadow that used to be a man. No wonder their eyes held such pity. No wonder his staff was terrified of him if this is what they saw, this manic, guilt-ridden, ravaged caricature of what he once had been.

But then he shook his head, trying to dispel the deep, desperate self-pity that had begun to settle itself on his frail shoulders. He straightened a little and reached for the light switch, flipping it on and filling the small room with the yellow glow of artificial light. The shadows dispersed, the darkness crept back into the corners, and Roy's eerie silhouette transformed back into his pale, non-threatening shape.

Not that it was really much of an improvement.

Roy stared at himself in the mirror, recoiling slightly from the terror that he saw in his own face. He closed his eyes again and took several deep breaths, still gripping the cool sides of the sink with claw-like hands. There was no danger here.

_No danger, Roy. Come on. Knock it off. It's over._

He stood like that for a long time: eyes closed and head inclined, bent forward over the sink and taking slow, even breaths. He might have been there for twenty minutes or for hours—it was hard for him to tell—but slowly Roy's heart calmed to a more reasonable pace and his racing thoughts soothed themselves into a mellow buzz. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at his reflection again. He looked sallow and beaten and unspeakably tired... but at least the fear had lessened to a more tolerable level.

Roy let his eyes travel across his own face. Before now, he hadn't really taken a good look at himself in the mirror other than to shave or to run a comb through his hair. To put it mildly, he looked dreadful. His cheeks were hollowed and his eyes were darkly shadowed by fatigue and stress. The only color in his pallid visage came from the bright red gash in his lower lip.

Roy turned on the sink and grabbed a hand-towel from the little rack on the wall. He dampened the towel under the faucet, letting the water wash the thin, amber-colored vomit down the drain. He brought up the towel and dabbed gingerly at the split, wiping away the smear of blood. The cut really wasn't that bad... it had already stopped bleeding. It probably wouldn't have opened up at all if it weren't for the fact that it was still healing from when he'd bitten though it. It could have been so much worse if Maes really _had_ wanted to hurt him...

Somehow, that last thought was comforting. Maes could have killed Roy if he had wanted to... he could have done terrible, inhuman things at the slightest whim, completely dominating and overpowering Roy in his weakened state... but he hadn't. Maes had been kind and supportive through all of this... frustrating and annoying and careless at times, but he meant well. Maes had just slipped up. He had gotten frustrated and... it was an accident. It had to be.

Roy took another long, steadying breath. Okay. So it had been accident... but that didn't change the fact that Roy's heart shuddered with fear just thinking about being in the same room as that man any time soon.

God, it was all so fucked up. Maes was the only person who had kept Roy halfway sane through his recovery and now... To lose that small security now was far more frightening that Maes' threatening presence. Roy could not lose him. Not now. Maes was all that he had left to depend on. Without him, there was nothing.

Roy swallowed, blinking back the persistent mist of tears that was blurring his vision. Maybe he just shouldn't think about it. Roy was calming down, the last thing he needed was to upset himself again. No. It was okay. His pulse was slowing and his breathing was evening out. He was fine. The crisis had passed. Yes. He'd talk to Maes later and then everything would sort itself out, right? Right. Yes. Fine.

Roy took the damp towel away from his mouth and looked at the cut again. It was closing. It was a little swollen and would probably bruise, but it was certainly nothing to worry about. The Colonel sighed and tilted his head to the side, moving his eyes to the scar on the corner of his mouth that trailed down along his jaw line and disappeared under the collar of his uniform. Roy removed his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down off of his shoulders, continuing to follow the ragged scar with his eyes to where it ended at the base of his neck. Other scars flecked his shoulders and collarbone. There were little scars everywhere, marring his flesh with pale pink lines and blemishes. A few of them were still healing, but for the most part they were doing well.

All wounds heal eventually, even if they do leave scars. Roy just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Roy reached up and traced a circle around a cigarette burn peeking from a corner of the gauze taped over his upper back. The swarm of cigarette burns under the bandage itched like mad and probably needed to be cleaned; the bandage hadn't been changed since Maes had done it yesterday morning.

Roy pulled off his shirt the rest of the way and put it on the counter beside the hand towel. He reached up and peeled the bandage back awkwardly, trying to move his sore left shoulder as little as possible as he pulled off the gauze. As of yet he hadn't had to change his own bandages, but he couldn't keep depending on other people... especially not Maes. After everything that Roy had been through, he could sure as hell change his own goddamn bandages. It couldn't be that hard and he needed something to distract himself with while he was still fighting against his panic.

He ripped the bandage off the rest of the way, hissing slightly as the tape tore at his skin. He turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder to examine the reflection of his wounds, wincing as he absorbed the sprawling injury. He hadn't really had a chance to look at it yet and, though it was not nearly as bad as he'd thought it was, it was still not a pretty sight.

The pocked, inflamed skin stretched over his back and shoulder blades was spotted and discolored, the healing burns raised and shiny with new scar tissue. There were dozens of them, maybe more than a hundred all told. Roy's eyes wandered over the ruined flesh, trying to detach himself emotionally from the wounds. He could almost smell the cigarette smoke, could almost feel the embers cooking tiny circular patches of skin... But no. That was all over now. It was done with. Finished. He had to move on.

Still, the burns were interesting to look at from the standpoint of a fire alchemist. It almost looked like there was a design formed by the burns, as if each one had been placed specifically. Roy narrowed his eyes at it. It _was_ a design. It was not just a random scattering of wounds; there was a purposeful structure to the burns, but it was hard to distinguish what it was supposed to be because it was only half-healed and some of it was still swollen and red. Roy looked more closely, trying to ignore the mild queasiness that was returning to him. Part of him was recoiling from the thought that Jenkins had not only burned him, but had deliberately _drawn_ something as if Roy were nothing more than a wall to be graffitied.

But... but it wasn't a drawing. It was a _word_ Roy realized, his mild queasiness morphing into some sick emotion akin to horror. Some of the letters were very distinct now that he recognized what they were, but the others sort of blurred together. What did it say? The word was distorted and the fact that Roy was trying to read it backwards in the mirror didn't make it any easier... but then he saw it. Bile rose to the back of his throat and he exhaled sharply, the impact of his discovery driving the air from his lungs.

Roy read it again to be sure, but there was no mistaking it and that cruel certainty made him want to fall to his knees and scream. For there it was, plain as day... not a word but a name, burned into him like a brand on a bull:

_**JENKINS**_, it read.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It took Maes a long time to calm down enough to form coherent sentences.

He could tell that Ed was alarmed and overwhelmed by the fact that a full-grown man was crying all over him, but Maes' efforts to get a grip on himself were only mildly successful. Ed kept asking what was wrong, trying to get Maes to tell him what had happened, but for the first several minutes of their conversation all Maes could manage was broken words and sobbed curses.

"Major, what's wrong? What happened? Is he okay?" Ed sputtered, trying to push Maes off of him as politely as he could manage.

"...I p-punched him in the face," Maes was able to gasp finally, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"...What?" Ed breathed incredulously, his grip tightening spasmodically on Maes' arm, "You must be joking... I mean, you... you didn't really hit him... did you?"

Maes raised his head and looked at Edward, the painful guilt digging into his chest intensified by the shocked reproach in the boy's eyes. "Yes, I... I did. I just f-fucking... I didn't mean to... I..."

Ed's eyes were wide. "Why would you do that?" he asked, horrified.

"I don't know, I-I just _snapped_... Oh god, how could I do that to him...?" Maes moaned, covering his face.

He took a deep breath and told Ed everything that had happened since he first walked into the office that morning, explaining Roy's desperate attempt to return to the daily grind and his subsequent breakdown. Ed listened in tense silence aside from a few gasps and expletives in regards to the Fuhrer and Maes' standoff with Roy.

"And then you just _left_ him?" Ed asked when Maes had finished.

"What else was I supposed to do? He was looking at me like I was some sort of monster..." Maes sniffed, a little calmer, "It would have just made it worse if I'd stayed."

"Major, you have to go back to him... What if he..." Ed trailed off, then cleared his throat and continued, "...What if he hurts himself?"

"I don't think he'll do anything..." Maes said uncertainly, "He said that he wanted to, but he wouldn't..."

"And you'd believe that crap? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Look, I know that I fucked up, okay? I do not need you to remind me," Maes spat, Edward's words striking him hard because something in the back of the Major's mind was saying exactly the same thing. "I'm doing everything I can, Ed... I would give my life for him! I would have stayed and let him fry me if I thought that there was a chance that it might help him somehow, but I know that he'd regret it and then he'd be even worse off...!"

"You have to go back to his place!"

"He's terrified of me, Ed! I _hit_ him. I busted his lip open! If I go back, he'll just freak out again."

Ed sighed, chewing on his lip fretfully. "I know... I know. This is just... so messed up. What are we supposed to do?"

"I dunno, Ed," Maes rasped, rubbing his temples. "I don't know what to do anymore..."

Ed sighed again harshly and ran a hand through his hair, looking lost and surprisingly close to tears.

"I told him to call me here when he calmed down..." Maes continued lamely, taking off his glasses to wipe his own stinging eyes.

"You think he will?"

"I _hope_ he will. If he doesn't, then I'll have no choice but to go back to make sure that he's okay."

"Do... do you want me to come with you...?"

Maes favored him with a watery smile, "That's probably a good idea. If he won't listen to me, he might listen to you."

Ed nodded and swallowed hard. After a long pause he asked, "So, what do we do now? Just sit here and wait...?"

"It's the only thing we _can_ do."

The boy clenched his jaw and looked over at the phone on Maes' desk. "And what about after?" he asked quietly, "After he calls... after we go over there. What do we do with him then?"

Maes gave a tiny shrug, unsure of what to say. What _would_ they do with Roy? What if all the progress that Maes had made with him had been erased by this one careless act? A line had been crossed and Roy's hysteria had been taken to another level... What if there was no coming back from this? What if Roy's meeting with the Fuhrer had driven him to the edge and Maes' fist had violently knocked him over it? How were they going to move forward from this point?

Well... maybe after all this Roy would be able to see that he needed help... Maybe this horrible experience would be good for him in the long run, helping him to realize that he needed therapy. And if Roy didn't call... If Maes and Ed went back to his apartment and found that he was still in the grip of his volatile hysteria, then Maes wasn't sure that he had any choice other than to take him back to the hospital.

By force, if necessary.

But, god... Maes could just imagine the horror that would be on Roy's face if they tried to make him go back to the hospital. He would resist, surely. Ed might have to transmute something to hold Roy down, binding him so that Maes could carry him to the car. Roy would thrash and writhe against his bonds, screaming _I TRUSTED you! How could you do this to me?_ And then they would arrive at the hospital and Roy would beg them to take him back home. Ed would look away and chew his lip, fighting tears and Maes would call over a pair of strong paramedics to take Roy away.

Even in his imagination, the look of absolute betrayal on Roy's face was like a physical blow that made Maes close his eyes against the sting of grief and shudder, praying that it wouldn't come to that.

He felt something touch his knee and opened his eyes again.

Ed was still sitting close to him, his biological hand resting gently on Maes' knee, such worried kindness in his eyes that Maes almost started crying again right there. Maes knew that Ed was not a physically affectionate person and tended to use his words to comfort rather than his body—one of the many things that made him so much like Roy—and to see that the poor kid was almost as deeply affected by Roy's trauma as Maes himself... it was deeply touching.

"I'm so sorry that you got dragged into this mess, Ed," Maes rasped sincerely, placing his hand on top of the boy's, "...But it's good to see that you care about him."

Ed smirked sadly. "Well... he isn't an asshole _all_ the time..."

Maes gave a tiny laugh and shook his head. Edward really was a good kid... Maes' disappointment at his failure to visit Roy was short lived and the Major had already forgiven him with all his heart. Ed was still a child, after all, and to see the strongest, most influential male figure in his life made so frail must certainly be hard for him.

"He'll be okay, kiddo," Maes whispered, mussing Ed's hair softly. The muscles in Ed's neck tightened and he clenched his jaw, looking away.

"...Yeah," he choked. Maes smiled down at him sadly, his shoulders slumping.

The telephone on Maes' desk rang suddenly, filling the office with cold, trilling sound and making them both jump. Maes reached for the phone, but then hesitated. If it was Roy, what could Maes possibly say to him? What was _Roy_ going to say to _Maes_? What if...?

Acting in Maes' hesitation, Ed grabbed the phone and put it to his ear.

"M-Major Hughes' office..." Edward said tremulously into the receiver. Maes held his breath, watching Ed and listening closely.

"Is it him?" Maes whispered tensely. Ed nodded tightly, his eyes uncertain.

"Whoa, wait. Slow down, Colonel..." Ed tried to soothe into the phone, sounding both startled and alarmed, "I can't understand you..."

The kid paused, listening. Maes could faintly hear Roy's voice over the telephone lines, high and panicked, speaking very quickly. Maes couldn't make out what he was saying, but the increasing pallor in Ed's face said enough.

"...They what?" Ed breathed, "Well... well, what does it say...?"

Ed paused again, then sucked in a trembling gasp and covered his mouth with his hand as if he was going to be sick. He looked up at Maes with huge golden eyes and handed the phone to him without a word.

"._..He SIGNED me! Like a fucking piece of art!"_ Roy was screaming, "_L-like he's proud of what he did to me!_"

"Shh, shh... Come on, buddy, calm down..." Maes said gently, trying hard not to voice the renewed terror in his gut.

"_Did you know?! You saw it, you must have seen it, Maes! You've changed my bandages! Did you f-fucking know?!_"

He was crying, his words coming from him in sharp bursts of anguish across the static of the telephone lines. His desperation was almost tangible, sending a cold wave of adrenaline down Maes' spine, his instincts shouting out warnings of danger.

"Did I know about what, Roy? I don't know what you're talking about..."

"_THE BURNS, MAES! The burns on my back! Jenkins burned his _name_ into me! You knew, didn't you? You knew and you kept it from me!_"

Maes' stomach turned and bile rose to the back of his throat. The image of Roy's burn-covered back slammed vividly into Maes' mind. He _had_ seen it. He had seen it and shrugged it off... but he could remember thinking...

_The flesh there reminded Maes perversely of a connect-the-dot puzzle... in fact, if you connected the burns it almost looked as if you could spell out a word..._

Then it had not been Maes' imagination. There really had been something written in Roy's flesh... but Maes really hadn't known what it was. He had looked away, chiding himself for even thinking something so perverse... but something _was_ there and now in Maes' clarified memory, he could see Jenkins' distorted name. Roy's torturer had signed his victim, forever scarring him, forever claiming ownership over him.

"No... God, I didn't know, Roy. I swear..." Maes moaned, wishing that he could reach through the phone lines and embrace his friend, "I didn't realize..."

"_LIAR!_"

"Roy, please..."

"_I c-can't live with this on me. I WON'T live with it on me, Maes."_

Maes' breath caught in his chest, "Don't do anything stupid, love. Just listen to me for a second..."

"_I'm tired of listening to you!_" Roy shouted tearfully and then, to Maes' horror, he hung up the phone.

"No... No, no, _goddamnit_, Roy!" Maes cursed, quickly dialing Roy's number with a trembling hand.

"What's going on...?" Ed asked, reflecting the terror that had taken hold of Maes.

"I dunno. I'm not sure yet," Maes replied tightly as Roy's phone rang on the line. Once. Twice. Three times... Four...

"FUCK!" Maes cried, slamming down the phone and jumping to his feet, "We have to go, Ed. Now."

Maes turned and bolted out of the office, running at top speed down the tiled hallway of HQ with Ed sprinting behind him. People in the hallway watched them streak by, startled by their passage. They ran past Hawkeye and she called after them, but neither of them gave her a second glance as they exited the building and raced to Maes' car. They jumped in and Maes started the engine, screeching away before Ed had even closed his door properly.


	15. The Flames

_No. No. NO!_

_(You're mine, you little whore.)_

_Shut up... Please, just shut up..._

Roy heart was pounding so hard that it hurt, sending little tremors to his bloody fingertips and making the corners of his vision fade to black.

_(I've branded you. I've signed you. I own you.)_

"Fuck you!" Roy shouted, unaware that he was speaking aloud.

(_Been there, done that.)_

The mirror above the sink fractured, distorting Roy's wild-eyed reflection in the brief moment before the shards fell from their frame.

Blood splattered the white countertop with thick crimson spots.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ed didn't ask any questions as Maes sped down the streets of Central, dodging both cars and pedestrians in his haste. He just sat in the passenger's seat, tightlipped with both hands clenched into small, powerless fists. He didn't need to be told why they had to get to Roy as fast as humanly possible: he already knew. Like Maes, the thought that Roy might be driven to a suicidal precipice had probably been nagging at the back of Ed's mind in that far-off place where sane people put things that they don't want to think about.

Damn it, what if they were already too late? What if they were racing toward a dead end, a lost cause? Fuck, why hadn't Maes thought to take away Roy's guns before he left? He should have taken the guns days ago while Roy was still in the hospital, he should have foreseen this. It was obvious, clear from the beginning that something like this might happen. It had almost happened before after Ishbal, hadn't it? HADN'T IT? And then when Maes had confronted him about it earlier, Roy had practically said "Yes, Maes. I'm suicidal," and what had Maes done in response to that? He had decked Roy in the face and then left him. He had abandoned him. Maes had stricken and forsaken the very man that he had taken an oath to protect, and now...

Maes gripped the steering wheel hard, his knuckles going white under the pressure as he tried to still his frightened heartbeat. No, maybe Roy would be okay. Maybe they weren't too late. Yeah. He'd be okay, he'd be okay...

They pulled up to the curb outside of Roy's apartment and leapt from the car. Maes reached the door first and flung it open, bursting into the empty living room and calling Roy's name.

There was no answer.

"ROY! Answer me, you son of a bitch!"

Nothing.

Maes gave a strangled curse and looked around. The door to the bathroom was ajar and the light was on within, haloing the door with a soft golden glow. Maes rushed forward, barking an order for Ed to check Roy's bedroom. The major pushed open the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, his stomach churning as he cast around his wide, searching glance.

The mirror above the sink had been shattered, littering the countertop and floor with glinting shards. Blood was smeared vividly across the white tiles and there was a wet crimson handprint on the wall beside the broken mirror, chilling Maes to his core. What if Roy had slit his wrists with the broken glass? Fuck, fuck, what if he was bleeding to death right now? They had to find him. Maes turned from that gruesome sight and looked toward the shower. The shower was on, filling the small room with the hazy white noise of falling water, but Maes didn't see anyone in the stall beyond the half-closed shower curtain.

"He's not in his bedroom," Ed reported, his voice cracking with dread and he ran to join Maes in the bathroom, "Where else could he...?" but then he stopped, absorbing the broken mirror and the blood. His huge, scared eyes wandered over the handprint on the wall, then to a smear next to it that Maes hadn't noticed. Ed's gaze followed the direction of the smear, then landed on another handprint that smudged the lip of the bathtub. Ed exchanged a glance with Maes, then cautiously stepped forward and peeked around the edge of the shower curtain.

"...He's here," the boy said quietly, his voice scarcely audible over the sound of the water.

Holding his breath and terrified of what he might see, Maes moved to stand next Ed and pulled back the curtain.

Roy was sitting in the bathtub, facing the shower's spray with his head bent low so that the water hit his shoulders and cascaded down his back. His broken leg was stretched out before him, the other drawn up so that he could rest his forehead against his knee. He was fully clothed except for his shirt and jacket and he was soaked to the core, shivering under the downpour of cold water. Roy's arms were crossed over his chest, his shoulders hunched and his face shielded by the black, dripping strands of his wet hair.

Maes nudged Ed aside gently and went down on his knees beside the tub.

"...Roy?" Maes called softly, his heart in his throat. Roy didn't answer, acting as if he hadn't heard Maes speak at all. Lost for what else to do, Maes reached over and turned the shower off. "Roy? Are you okay?"

For several long beats of silence, Roy gave no response. Then, quietly, he rasped:

"Turn it back on. It's helping."

Maes' heart leapt to hear him speak and he obeyed without hesitation, returning the flow of water to the tub.

"Are you okay?" Maes asked again, daring to reach forward and brush Roy's wet hair out of his face. Roy's eyes were closed, his face surprisingly serene. When he didn't reply, Maes pressed, "I know you're bleeding, Roy. What did you do?"

Roy's only reply to Maes' question was a halfhearted grunt.

"...Let me see your wrists," Maes bade gently, hoping that he was wrong in his assumptions but still desperate to make sure.

At this, Roy opened his eyes and raised his clouded gaze to his best friend. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed, but entirely calm, even dazed. It looked as if it took a moment for Roy to process what Maes had asked him, but when he did the vaguest flicker of irritation crossed his face. Roy uncrossed his arms and showed Maes his gloved right hand. The glove was tinged pink with blood and it was torn at the knuckles, revealing a ragged line of sliced flesh across Roy's fingers.

"I accidentally cut myself on the mirror," he said flatly, clearly annoyed by Maes' implication.

Maes stared at the sluggishly bleeding hand for a moment, then sighed out a slightly hysterical laugh of relief.

"Oh... oh, god. We thought... we thought you'd... done something."

Roy let his hand drop to the bottom of the tub. The water swirling around it rinsed away some of the blood and carried it to the other end of the tub where it spiraled down the drain in a thin red swirl.

"I _did_ do something," Roy said finally, his voice still eerily calm as he shivered under the water.

"What did you do...?" Maes asked him again, the uplifting surge of relief that he'd felt moments ago all but revoked.

Again, it took a long time for Roy to reply. Roy turned his exhausted-looking eyes back to Maes without raising his head from his knee and stared at him for several uncomfortable beats.

"I think I'm in shock," was all that Roy said, closing his eyes again.

Maes' heart lurched in his chest, "...Did you hurt yourself, Roy? If you did, I need you to tell me, okay?"

"It's... it's not as bad as it looks..." Roy rasped after another long pause, the calm in his voice finally giving way to the barest hint of agitation.

"_What_ isn't? You need to tell me—"

"...I didn't say I was going to end my life, Maes; I just said that I couldn't live with it on me."

"Roy, what are you..." but then Maes stopped, the truth finally dawning on him. How stupid he had been to have not realized earlier... to not have known instantly that this is what Roy would do...

"Lean forward a little," Maes said to him shakily, feeling ill, "Let me see."

Slowly, Roy obeyed, hunching forward and bowing his head even further. Maes hissed out a sympathetic curse when he saw it, bile rising once more to the back of his throat.

"Son of a _bitch_..." Ed breathed behind him.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Roy said again tightly, his words becoming increasingly anxious.

But it _was_ bad.

The flesh of Roy's back was red and inflamed, some of it textured with blisters, some of it sloughing off entirely. The name that had been written there had been completely destroyed, but so had much of Roy's skin. The burn was nearly a foot across and perhaps six inches high, a perfect rectangle of devastated tissue that Roy had seared into his own flesh. No wonder Roy was sitting in the bathtub, leaning so that cold water rolled gently down his back... As a flame alchemist, he knew his craft well and knowing one's craft means knowing the first-aid associated with it.

"Oh, Roy..." Maes said bracingly, "sweetheart, we have to take you back to the hospital..."

"No. It's not that bad, I can treat it myself."

"It's bad enough. You can't heal this on your own..."

"Don't tell me what I can't do!" Roy exploded angrily, his voice breaking with sudden emotion.

"Roy..."

"Please Maes, don't make me go back there..." the man begged, his tone quickly shifting from angry to desperate. The dazed placidity that shock had gifted him with was fading, threatening another onset of hysteria, "I can't go back to the hospital. I _can't_. Don't make me go back!"

"...I have to take you back. The burns are bad, Roy. You could die without medical help..." Maes lamented, "But it'll be okay. We'll take care of you."

"They'll put me in an asylum!" he shouted, a sharp sob erupting from his chest, "They'll know that this wasn't an accident, that I did this to myself! If I go back to the hospital, they'll commit me! And after losing it in front of the fucking Fuhrer and Hakuro like that... if this doesn't prove to everyone that I really _am_ crazy, then..."

Roy stopped and shook his head helplessly, biting back another sob.

"No..." Maes soothed, reaching out cautiously and taking his hand experimentally. Roy didn't pull away and even seemed as if he didn't really notice. "That won't happen, I promise..."

"You're lying... You'd say anything to make me go back..."

"I'm not lying to you," Maes crooned gently, "I don't lie to you. I've never lied to you and I'm not going to start now... I'm going to be completely honest with you, so just listen to me, okay?"

Maes took a deep breath and bit his lip, choosing his words very carefully.

"You're half right: when we take you to the hospital, they will want to keep you for psychological evaluation... but it's only for a little while," Maes hastened to add when the look of alarm on Roy's face intensified, "You aren't crazy, Roy but this does prove that you need help. You don't have a choice now. Do you understand?"

"But... but how do I know that? How do I know _anything_?"

"...You're just going to have to trust me," Maes rasped, battling hard against the tightness in his throat, "..._Do_ you still trust me?"

A few months ago, the answer to that question would have been an immediate, "Yes, Maes, you know that. Stop being so dramatic, you pansy," but now things were different. Roy had changed and so had his relationship with Maes. The affirmative answer did not come readily to Roy's lips and for several beats of tense silence, Maes thought that the answer might not come at all. But then, finally, Roy clenched his jaw and nodded, blinking away his tears.

"Yeah. I do."

Maes exhaled sharply, a surprisingly intense kind of relief coursing through him like a muscle-relaxant, turning his limbs to jelly. He hadn't realized just how important it was for him to still have Roy's trust after all of this—when Roy had every right to distrust him and every other human being in the world. Maes' throat constricted and his heart skipped a beat, tightening in his chest painfully. God, he loved Roy so much. Maes' vision blurred and he wiped his eyes quickly.

"Good. Good, I'm glad," Maes sniffed, trying to play off his sudden surge of emotion, "Then let me go call an ambulance, okay...?"

Roy clutched Maes' hand tightly, "No."

"It'll be all right, Roy. I'll be with you. I'll come see you every day..."

"I know... but... just... don't leave," Roy mumbled, pressing his face against Maes' hand as if embarrassed by his own fear and helplessness, "Please, don't leave me alone right now..."

"...Oh," Maes said after a moment, tears coming to his eyes again before he could blink them back, "Oh, of course..."

The Major turned and looked at the boy hovering over his shoulder. Ed was standing close, but not too close. He was white as a sheet and looking as terrified as he did the day that Roy had woken up in screaming hysterics, telling him to run. He looked like he wanted to run now. He looked lost and scared, so much like the child that he pretended not to be.

"Ed, will you go call an ambulance?" Maes asked him gently, not bothering to wipe his eyes, "I'm afraid to move him myself and he doesn't want me to leave."

"..._Ed_?" Roy asked suddenly. He was not talking to the boy but to Maes, seeking confirmation of what he'd just heard. It occurred to Maes that Roy couldn't see Ed from the way that his head was down and it was obviously shocking for him to realize that he was in the room. "He's alive? He's here?"

Maes' heart sank a little further. How could Roy keep forgetting that Ed was alive when it was clearly so important to him?

Ed came forward hesitantly and knelt down beside Maes. Roy looked up at him, startled and bewildered. "I'm okay, Colonel..." the boy whispered tightly, "Don't worry about me. I'm safe,"

Roy stared at him then he gave a sick, manic laugh, looking both relieved and horrified. "I knew that," he half giggled, half wept, "F-fuck, am I losing my grip, or what?"

"Go call," Maes told Edward again quietly. Ed bit his lip hard and nodded, getting to his feet and fleeing the room at a half-run, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor.

Roy was still giggling/crying to himself quietly, shivering and clearly trying to get a firmer hold on his composure. Maes shifted off of his knees and sat down next to the tub, silently coaxing Roy to move a little closer. Roy obeyed, his breath hitching slightly as he moved one of his shoulders too much and pulled at the massive burn.

Roy leaned sideways awkwardly and rested his forehead against Maes'. Roy's brow was cold and wet and his sopping hair made tiny rivulets of water drip down Maes' nose and mingle with the tears on his cheeks. Maes didn't mind, instead he reached over and ran his fingers up and down Roy's arm gently, wishing that he could pull his friend into his lap and hold him. But he couldn't. Not because Roy would resist... because, at this point, Maes thought that Roy probably _wanted_ to be held... but the terrible irony was that neither of them wanted to risk further damaging the remaining flesh on his back with such intimate contact.

There was silence for a while and Roy stopped crying, his breath slowing to a normal rate. Maes raised his hand up to Roy's neck and checked his pulse. It was still too fast, but that was due to shock. Roy's body was clearly still reeling from its newest wound, but his mind was calming itself again.

"I'm sorry that I hit you, Roy..." Maes apologized suddenly, just needing to say it. "I really didn't mean to, but that's no excuse."

Roy gave no reply for a moment and then, to Maes' surprised, he gave a tiny laugh and said, "Don't worry about it... I probably deserved it. When you hit me, it's usually because I deserve it."

"Don't say that. You did _not _deserve it. I was just upset and... I lost control. It was a terrible thing for me to do to you..."

"...I know that this has been hard on you, Maes," Roy mumbled seriously, "I don't want you to apologize for anything. You've done so much for me. And after everything you've put up with, it's only natural for you to lose control every once in a while..."

Maes allowed himself a bitter smile, "I could say the same thing to you, Sparky."

Roy didn't say anything to that, but Maes thought that he felt him smile very softly.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Ed came back from calling the ambulance, Hughes and Mustang were still sitting like that, foreheads pressed together as they conversed quietly about where to go from here. Ed thought better of interrupting them and instead went back into the front room and sat on the couch, warring with the impulse to cry like a baby.

The paramedics came quickly and Mustang didn't fight them as Ed had half-feared that he would. It was clear that the Colonel didn't want to go back to the hospital, but he swallowed his protests and let them strap him to a gurney without a word. Hughes spoke to him the whole time, his voice so low and warm that even Ed felt a little soothed by it.

That had been over a week ago, and the disconcerting chaos that life in Central had become was settling itself back into some sketchy form of normalcy.

Ed clapped his hands together and pressed them against the smooth black marble, making it stand a little bit taller with a flash of alchemic light.

"It's still crooked," Beal said, starting to sound amused.

"It is not!" Ed snapped, stepping back to stand next to Beal and take a look for himself, "It can't possibly be crooked still. I've adjusted it three times already." Ed eyed his handiwork critically, scanning over the sharp lines of the structure.

It was still crooked.

"DAMN IT!"

Ed hated working with marble. It showed flaws way too readily. Why couldn't Mustang have chosen some kind of metal or something? Even _granite_ would have been better than marble...

As eager as he'd been to start the project, Ed had begun to procrastinate on it almost immediately after he'd started. It was harder than he'd expected it to be and he'd gotten very frustrated very quickly and had put off working on it again until yesterday when Ed had been in the hospital visiting the Colonel. It had been good to see him, since Ed had been barred from visiting for the first few days while Mustang was still under the hospital's observation/evaluation system. He looked better physically and it was apparent that he was actively working through some things psychologically. He'd even made a short joke or two at Ed's expense during the visit. Outwardly, Ed had huffed and scowled angrily at the playful insults, but on the inside he was celebrating this return to more familiar grounds.

Hughes privately told Ed that the therapy was going well. Mustang was seeing a therapist almost every day: sometimes in a group with Beal or Hughes, but mostly by himself, doing everything he could to overcome the damage that had been done to him.

"I didn't expect him to start improving so soon..." Hughes had said to Ed wonderingly, "I mean, he still has a long way to go and it will probably take years... but he's already more stable."

"That's awesome," Ed had replied sincerely, "Do you know when they're going to release him?"

"Tomorrow. Didn't he tell you?"

Ed had cursed and then rushed immediately back to his project site and worked hard for hours until the sun got too low for him to see properly. He had wanted to get it done before Mustang got out of the hospital, but that was clearly not going to happen. The Colonel had probably already checked out of the hospital and Ed was only about half finished. He'd called up Mustang earlier that morning and apologetically told him that he'd have it done by next week at the latest. The man did not sound disappointed at all and just reminded Ed not to rush it and to take his time.

It was good that Mustang wasn't irritated by Ed's tardiness, but the boy still wanted to get done with it as soon as possible.

Ed looked at the marble and sighed. Lieutenant Beal patted him on the back consolingly and smirked.

"Maybe if you just lowered the other side instead of raising this side," Beal suggested amiably. Ed turned and glared at him and Beal laughed. Ed had been consulting Beal on and off about the project since he started and it was good to have a second pair of eyes to make sure that everything looked right, but Beal knew nothing about alchemy and next to nothing about architecture.

During Ed's first meeting with Beal, he could not understand why Mustang wanted him to work with the Lieutenant. Beal was nice enough and Ed immediately liked him, but it didn't seem as if he possessed any talents that would actually aid Ed in his assignment. Ed hadn't been aware of Beal's connection with Mustang until they started talking...

...Beal had been there with Mustang the whole time. He understood. He knew. That was why Mustang wanted Beal to be a part of this project, because he had a devastating kind of insight to everything that Ed was supposed embody in his creation.

Mustang really had given Ed a lot a freedom in this assignment, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing in retrospect. Edward had never even seen a military memorial and hadn't the slightest clue about how to build one. Luckily, Beal seemed to understand that and helped Ed visualize what he was building as something other than just a slab of marble with the names of forty-three dead soldiers engraved into it... because for both Beal and Mustang, it was so much more than that: It was respect. It was dignity. It was undying gratitude for the fallen soldiers' eternal sacrifice and it was a breathless, heartbroken apology because Mustang hadn't been able to save them.

So, with Beal's guidance, the soulless blocks of marble that Mustang had provided them with was slowly becoming something that Ed hoped would meet the Colonel's expectations. It was a stoic black pillar, seven feet tall and two feet wide. At Beal's suggestion, it slanted back from the base at a very slight angle so that the setting sun reflected a brilliant red off of the mirror-smooth surface. At the moment it was very simple, but Ed had intricate designs sketched along the margins of where the names were engraved and had plans of using some of the leftover marble to make little black roses in a ring around the structure like a grave wreathe. Ed still had several days' work ahead of him, but he was getting closer to his goal and Beal seemed to be very pleased with how it was turning out...

If only Ed could keep it from going crooked!

"It's not _that_ lopsided..." Beal comforted, still smirking, "Maybe no one will notice."

"Hey, if _I_ can see it, I know sure as hell that Mustang will see it," Ed mumbled in response as he slouched back over to the quasi-memorial and clapped his hands together again. "He's going to kill me if I don't get this right."

He closed his eyes and used every ounce of his concentration as he pressed his hand to the cold stone and transmuted it. Measurements and equations ran through his head at top speed, coaxing and manipulating the material beneath his hands. When he finished, he opened his eyes and looked to Beal.

"How about now?"

Beal looked the structure up and down, examining it with surprising intensity, but then he smiled and gave Ed a thumbs-up, "I think you got it."

"_Finally_," the boy sighed, plopping himself down on the grass beside the untidy pile of marble scraps. He was starting to get tired and didn't want to over-work himself, so he might as well take a break now that he'd made some headway and reached a good stopping-point.

Beal chuckled again good-naturedly and moved to join him, lowering himself onto the grass with a sigh. Ed knew that the Lieutenant was trying not to show it, but he was tired and in pain most of the time. He had assured Ed many times that he was not nearly as bad off as the Colonel was, but that didn't mean that he was "okay." Aside from the group sessions that he had with Mustang, Beal was also in therapy: both physical and psychiatric. Beal was not ashamed of it and spoke openly to Ed, then had opened up even more when he discovered that Ed, too, was an amputee. He'd asked questions about phantom pain and automail and Ed had immediately put him in contact with Winry. She was due to arrive sometime tomorrow to see about fitting him with a new hand.

Ed smirked and tilted his head to the side as he looked at the memorial. Had Mustang foreseen this? Had he known that Ed and Beal would eventually reach the subject of automail in their discussions? Had he known that Ed would get Winry, the best automailist around, to hook Beal up? Ed gave a short laugh. Of course Mustang had known... he always saw all sides of every situation. What a manipulative asshole.

Beal's head perked up suddenly. He sat still for a moment as if listening, then his face slowly morphed into a huge grin. "Uh-oh," he said ominously.

"'Uh-oh,' what...?" Ed asked cautiously

"Shh. Listen."

Ed obeyed, straining to hear. The park was silent apart from the wind blowing between the line of red-leaved sweetgum trees that divided it from the cemetery, and the far-off piping of birds as they flocked overhead. As he listened, though, another sound caught his ear: voices, both deep and male. Voices that Ed recognized immediately.

"No..." Ed breathed, stumbling to his feet and running to the edge of the small hill where he had chosen to build the memorial. He looked down and saw two figures approaching. "No, no, NO!" he yelled, storming down the hill toward them, "I said _next_ week! _NEXT_ WEEK!"

Mustang and Hughes both stopped walking and looked up him.

"You can't see it yet, it's not done!" Ed shouted, coming to a halt in front of them.

Hughes snorted and looked at Mustang, who arched an eyebrow.

"I'm just checking up on your progress," the Colonel said easily, "What kind of patron would I be if I didn't come and see it for myself?"

"You can see it NEXT WEEK. When it's DONE!"

Mustang looked down at Ed levelly. "I have been stuck in a hospital for nearly a month straight. I'm sick of being indoors and this little sojourn is a good excuse for me to be outside. Now, are you _really_ going to make me walk all the way back to the car and just go home?"

Ed glared at Mustang. The man looked tired and he was already a little winded from his walk from the car, which Ed could see parked perhaps forty yards away, the windows winking in the setting sunlight. Mustang had been taken off of his crutches and given a sturdy cane, which was easier for him to use, but it was clearly still hard for him to walk any sort of distance. Sympathy tugged at Ed's heartstrings and his sighed with irritation, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"No..." he answered grudgingly.

Mustang smirked, knowing that he'd won. "I thought not."

Beside him, Hughes chuckled and ruffled Ed's hair. Ed batted him off and started stalking back up the hill with a grunt. Behind him, Mustang put a hand on Hughes' shoulder to steady himself and they followed.

Beal greeted Mustang with a warm, beaming smile and embraced him, being very careful not to accidentally brush the healing burn on his back. Apparently, Mustang hadn't been lying when he'd said that the burn wasn't as bad as it looked. Well, it _was_ bad and had needed intensive treatment, but it was already starting to heal. Even in the depths if his hysteria, Mustang had had a firm control of his alchemy and had done as little damage as possible while still effacing the name. Now he was very stiff and obviously in some amount of pain, but he would be all right.

Mustang returned Beal's fond greeting with a gentle laugh that made some of Ed's nervous irritation dissipate. Mustang was in a good mood, so maybe he wouldn't be too critical of the memorial's roughness... there was still a long way to go: surely Mustang would understand that...

"So, what do you think so far?" Beal asked Mustang, gesturing at the memorial. Clearly, the smiling man did not share in Ed's reservations.

Mustang turned to the memorial for the first time and his eyes widened slightly, though the expression on his face was entirely unreadable. He limped forward slowly, his unfathomable gaze roaming across the shining black surface of the marble, taking in every aspect of it. Ed moved to stand next to him and Beal and Hughes held back a ways, watching them.

"It's not done," Ed said again apologetically, "It'll be better when it's done. It's really rough right now, but I'll smooth it out. The names will be a little deeper and I'll flesh out the designs on the sides... I'm also going to use some of the scrap marble to—"

Mustang put a hand on Ed's shoulder and squeezed gently, silently telling the boy to stop talking. Ed obeyed and watched his superior's gaze travel across the list of names. His dark, intense eyes moved slowly, pausing on each name for several beats of sad silence before moving to the next, as if Mustang were picturing each of his departed soldiers in his head and privately composing a few words of farewell to them.

No one dared to speak. Ed, Beal, and Hughes all remained absolutely silent, watching the Colonel contemplate each name methodically. It was like witnessing a ritual or some kind of religious ceremony that struck Ed with a sense of awe that he didn't quite understand. It was beautiful and terribly sad in a way that made his insides ache.

When Mustang got to the last name he paused on it for a very long time. He reached out his hand and traced the letters JARED ZANE with slow, ungloved fingers, closing his eyes and pressing his brow against the cold stone.

Ed moved away a little, thinking that Mustang might want a little privacy in his grieving, but the hand on Ed's shoulder tightened desperately and the boy stayed put, his heart crying out to his Colonel.

"...It's good, Ed," the Colonel rasped finally, his voice breaking ever so slightly, "It's really good." He opened his eyes and looked down at Edward, his black lashes dampened by unshed tears of both sorrow and gratitude. He put a hand on each of Ed's shoulders and pulled him a little closer, leaning down until his lips were inches from Ed's ear.

"I cannot describe to you how much this means to me," Mustang whispered to him, "It's perfect. Thank you. Thank you_ so_ much..."

Ed closed his eyes tightly against a sudden wave of emotion. Hesitantly, he turned his head and buried his face into the side of Mustang's neck, trying to hide the formation of his tears.

"You're welcome, you bastard," Ed said thickly, wrestling with the urge to throw his arms around the man and hug him. Mustang chuckled softly and straightened, returning his gaze to the memorial and politely pretending not to notice when Ed furtively wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

The sun was setting quickly now and the surface of the marble was practically glowing in the dying light, silhouetting the Colonel in a halo of brilliant red as he stood in front of it. Burgundy and crimson leaves from the nearby sweetgum trees stirred at his feet and caught the light, making the red halo around him look like a ring of fire.

...The flames had not yet died in Roy Mustang, nor would they ever die if Edward had any say in the matter. They had been smothered and snuffed by many cruel hands until only embers remained... but even embers can ignite a bonfire. As long as the smallest spark remained of the fire that once raged in the Flame Alchemist's breast, there was still hope. It might take a long time, but the fire would be built up again. It would burn and intimidate. It would lick the sky, lighting the way for everyone who had sworn to follow it to the bitter end.

It would roar.

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**((A/N: It's over! Thank you all for such great reviews and crits, especially starshine, Miskat, and Taylowolf. I hope you enjoyed it in spite of the angst-overload and the cheesy ending.))**


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